Torment
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: The tale of one vengeful young man's desire to become a fledgling, and his trials and tribulations with the Razielim. Final Chapter Up. You REALLY do not wanna mess with these vampires. Review Responses and Notes added.
1. Losses

**Disclaimer:  All characters, locations etc from Legacy of Kain are property of Eidos Interactive / Crystal Dynamics.**

_"Cuimhnich air na daoine o'n d'thàinig thu." - "Remember the people from whom you come."_

_Torment of the mind is far more enduring than torment of the body, irrespective of one's genetic make-up or disposition. Emotional scars never truly heal, and, unlike physical wounds, may cause pain even when the causal event is little more than a distant, faded memory. Those who know this truth are able to appreciate the inherent power of pain; those who use it to their advantage are the most dangerous of all men. _

*

Slender arms sought the sky, billowing sleeves retreating with the act of supplication to reveal skin already tanned from long Spring days working the fields. The lightest of zephyrs stirred long, glossy locks, animating the statue-still figure without breaking her disciplined concentration. Every eye in the crowd centred on the svelte, sylph-like figure of the Priestess, the attention of two males in particular a little more acute than the rest. The first was Darrin, husband to the Priestess, his ceremonial robes marking him as brother-in-cloth to the three acolytes at his side. He watched with eyes unchanged from those of the soldier who had beheld her for the first time nearly fifteen years ago: he had long since given up the following of war for devotion to his family. The second pair of eyes belonged to the couple's young son, who watched his mother's graceful, well-rehearsed gestures with a species of proprietary awe. None compared to her. There was, so far as the boy was concerned, no woman on all Nosgoth so pretty, so caring, so devoted to her son and her life-mate as Daera. Almost as if the child's thoughts had filtered through to her, the Priestess glanced across at the her son where he waited with the rest of the children in the shade of the woods that ringed the clearing. A hint of a smile curled her lips momentarily before she schooled her expression back to one of serious concentration. The harvest ritual was about to begin.

Once again, Daera raised her arms to the sky, entreating the Old Gods with words as ancient as the colossal wooded giants that marked the boundaries to the clearing. The lowering heavens, roiling with turbulent clouds, kept their silence. Despite the serenity of the ceremony, several people among the gathered throng - which constituted almost everyone from the village of Carno – shuffled and coughed uncomfortably, as though disturbed by vague, hazy doubts. Their gaze was drawn again and again to the looming bulk of the massive fortress that cast an implacable shadow over the lush, fertile valley below. Shortly, Daera commanded undivided attention once more as she placed the offerings one by one on the natural altar provided by a long-fallen arboreal giant. As the Priestess intoned the words, many of the villagers mouthed along silently, the familiarity of the litany going some way to calm those unsettled by the rising breeze and the darkening sky.

"The first picked blade of hay, that the crop be plentiful."

"The first plucked fruit of the vine, that we may never thirst."

"The first sheared lock from the first-born lamb, that we may never hunger."

"Bless the harvest."

The last phrase was repeated time without number while the Priestess knelt with her arms raised in a 'V', dark eyes closed in the fervour of her devotions.

Abruptly, a metallic clanging noise cut across the reverent chant as a ceremonial urn was overturned and sent rolling into the centre of the clearing, disrupting the Priestess' entreaties. A raucous laugh shattered the ensuing quiet. As Daera turned to ascertain the reason for the disturbance, a grim figure on horseback breached the edge of the clearing. The rider was followed by two score others, and several people caught their breath as they recognised the distinctive armour. The rider reined his spirited mount to a stop just inside the clearing, taking in the sight of the audacious heathen, dressed in regal green, a makeshift crown of leaves encircling her inappropriately long, black hair. His lip curled in a sneer.

"This ceremony takes place against our wishes."

Daera turned from the altar to address the intruders, her manner and voice stately despite the simplicity of her attire. She was, to all appearances, a queen in pauper's robes.

"The will of the Gods must be appeased, my Lord – your permission notwithstanding." This raised some small chuckles from the bolder villagers.

The mounted warrior twisted the reins around his fingers with a creaking of stressed leather. 

"You have been warned, Daera. These ceremonies are a direct affront to our beliefs."

"You don't _have_ to witness them, my Lord." She commented as she glided up to stand at the side of the agitated stallion, her gaze entreating, calming, prepossessed. 

"You could just turn a blind eye. . ." The Priestess' tone of voice would have (and indeed had in the past) made many a man agree to just about anything. This, however, was not just any man, and his reaction to her suggestion proved it. Drawing a well-used broadsword from its saddle-sheath, the rider roared an order for his soldiers to attack. Reaching down as the horses thundered past him, he grabbed Daera by the hair and followed his men into the clearing, dragging the struggling Priestess with him.

Although the village of Carno had once boasted a reasonable number of able-bodied men, their numbers had thinned in proportion with the frequency of these raids, and those that were not killed, were drafted. Consequently, the riders met with little opposition as they let loose their righteous wrath on the unbelievers. Having already press-ganged the majority of the young men from this particular village, they were now faced with the satisfying prospect of wiping the remnants of their co-believers from the face of the world. The persecutors were relentless and indiscriminating in their violence, paying no heed to the age or gender of the people who fell to their blades, or who died an agonising death beneath the trampling hooves of their mounts. With a sweep of a thuggish arm, the Priestess' offerings were swept to the ground where they were submerged in the blood that mixed sluggishly with peat and grass. 

Dodging between the frantic horses and keen-edged blades, a young woman, burdened by her gravid state, managed at last to reach the bleached horn that hung from the branches of a tree at the far end of the clearing. A clear, haunting note resounded about the valley and the surviving villagers took heart – help would come. The only question now was whether it would arrive before the attack turned into a massacre. The young woman paused, the horn still at her lips as she sensed movement behind her. Her eyes widened as several soldiers converged on her and ended both her life and that of her unborn.

Darrin fought on as best he could with the ceremonial staff – the only 'weapon' he had brought with him to the clearing. He cursed himself for a fool: he should have suspected such an attack after the muttered warnings that had abounded within neighbouring villages of late. His hard-won warrior instincts had been hinting at this possibility, but he had been too concerned with indulging his wife in her anticipation of the coming ceremony. His stomach lurched as he saw Daera dragged past, dangling limp and unresisting from the leader's saddle. His life-mate's peril awoke more of his old soldier skills, and, tripping a nearby enemy, he proceeded to subdue him fervently with the butt end of his staff before lunging after the figure on horseback. 

From the dubious safety of the treeline, childish faces watched with fixed expressions of horror as parents, friends and relatives were cut down where they stood. Darrin and Daera's son waited among them; one half of him too petrified to move, the other yearning to go and help – but even at nine, he knew when he would be a liability.

All of a sudden, the ground began to tremble with the approach of more horsemen; those already fighting continued regardless, hoping against hope that the riders were their summoned allies and not reinforcements of the enemy. The children, huddled in the shade of the trees, watched open-mouthed as they beheld a sight all-too-rarely seen these days. Twenty horsemen charged into the clearing, their own unique armour gleaming dully in the fading light . The youngsters' spirits lifted as their sworn protectors thundered to the rescue, glittering blades shearing the intruders' armour and flesh as they prepared to punish the defilers of a most sacred ceremony. Eventually, as was wont to happen in such confrontations, the opposing leaders met: as twilight began to settle over the corpse-littered clearing, a heroic figure in gleaming plate armour faced off with an ashen-skinned leech in leather. 

"Release the priestess." The demand was imperious, while inviting opposition.

"She will die for her sins." Came the hissed reply.

"Perhaps one day – but not at your hand." 

The priestess' captor gave vent to an insidious chuckle in reply, before ending Daera's life with a casual twist of his wrist. From the safety of the trees, a young voice screamed its denial. As the priestess' body slumped to the embrace of the earth, the duel began in earnest, the attack of the human fuelled by his utter conviction in his beliefs. It was over all too quickly, the knight defeated in short order by the whirling blade and untiring skills of the vampire. As the victor appraised the status of the battle, he perceived a satisfactory outcome: the undead were triumphant. 

Shortly, the vampires began to trawl through the remains of the villagers in search of survivors, hurling bodies aside in their eagerness to find the still-living. Meanwhile, the last denizens of Carno hovered terrified at the forest edge – all except for Daera's son, who was undeterred by the bloodiness of the scene and raced forward to see for himself if his parents still lived. The vampires ignored him, intent on the task at hand, enabling him to approach the body of his mother, who lay unmoving at the side of the clearing. The boy halted a few feet distant, unable to approach further. His shocked eyes took in irrelevant details with crystal clarity: a slender hand, impossibly white against the rich loam; a spray of black locks, spread in a fan shape about a serene face. Eyes that would never see again bored straight into his skull. 

A voice called his name, weakly, and the boy freed himself from the spell to heed the summons. Numbly, he approached his father, who lay bleeding profusely against the overturned altar.

"Father!" cried the youngster, dropping to his knees aside his wounded parent. 

Darrin placed a weary hand on his offspring's head, wondering how to console the boy in these, his own last moments.

"Mother is gone." The child turned sorrowful eyes to his father, the dark brown orbits pleading for comfort. "What will we do without her?"

Darrin's pain-wracked brain sought desperately for the right answer, only to freeze as the Vampire leader strode forward to stand behind his son. The two exchanged a loaded glance.

"Will you take him?" the human's voice held a desperate edge.

"He is yet too young, Darrin."

The boy shot a glance over his shoulder to see the Clan leader appraising him critically. He rose steadily to his feet and drew himself up to his full four feet, ten inches, staring defiantly at the imposing figure of the Vampire Lord.

"I'm not afraid."

The Clan leader's visage remained stern, but the faintest hint of amusement momentarily lit his eyes. 

"I daresay you're not, at that." He realised the boy was looking at him expectantly. He sighed and squatted before the child, holding the youngster's attention with a golden-eyed stare. 

"But I doubt you would be happy staying nine years old forever."

The boy slowly shook his head, the vampire's words clarifying his hitherto dim understanding of the consequences of his request.

The vampire turned his attention back to the dying man. "We will take the survivors to a holding a little closer to the Fortress."

Darrin nodded his gratitude, a sudden choking spasm causing him to bring up a mouthful of blood. The vampire looked from the boy to his father, sensing that the child would be orphaned soon. He stood to allow them privacy in their last moments together.

"I want to go with them, Father – then I can help protect my friends." The boy's dark thoughts, however, strayed far from idealistic visions of protection. They erred more on the side of revenge.

Darrin smiled at his son's precociousness, wondering if he had been the same way at nine. He had. Nine is immortal, invincible. 

"Be patient, my son. When you come of age, you can attempt the Trials – until then," he raised his voice as the headstrong boy began to protest again, "Until then, protect our people, and serve the Clan."

The child nodded his assent, somewhat reluctantly, watching bemusedly as his father's eyes filled with tears. 

"Be well, my son." His eyes were dimming, and his fixed smile edged closer to a grimace as Death approached with a relentless tread.

"My little Isca."

*

_Black rain poured from the Wheel like tears as the Turelim tightened the winch._


	2. Desires

Candlelight reflected dimly from irises the colour of molasses; eyelids closed briefly, and a fleeting, fervent thought crystallised. Pupils contracted again as the deep brown eyes opened anew, shortly to be suffused in smoke and then plunged into darkness as the light sources died.

"Happy birthday!"

A round of applause filled the tavern as the main lights were lit again. Isca was immediately surrounded by well-wishers of all ages, pressing small gifts into his hands, clapping him on the back and – occasionally – whispering suggestions in his ear. The table before him was soon covered in hand-woven clothing, carved wooden ornaments, and, much to the boy's delight, his first hunting knife, which he quickly stashed away from prying eyes and eager hands. Most of the rest of the night passed in a blur, occasional snippets of conversation filtering through the tumult of music and dancing.

". . . far too young to be drinking your homebrew, Silas . . ."

"Bah, a little sniff of the barmaid's apron never hurt anyone . . ."

"You'll make him ill if you don't stop spinning him around like that . . ."

At sixteen, Isca, son of Daera and Darrin cut a handsome figure in his gala best. Already of a height with lads several years his elder, his youthful frame, whilst tall and strong, had not yet gained the depth of thew that develops when the teenage years are past. Nonetheless, his build was maturing gradually to show the rewards of years of manual labour, and such changes did not go unnoticed. Tonight he was surrounded, as always, by a small swarm of clucking aunties and cooing lasses, each trying to outdo the other in their presentation of gifts, or their attempts at vying for his attention. 

There were, mused the blissfully smiling youth, certain advantages to being one of only ten males under fifty in a settlement comprised almost entirely of women.

Eventually, Isca managed to extricate himself from the grasp of another potential dance partner - much to the chagrin of his aunties – and slip outside for a breath of fresh air. It was almost seven years now since the bereaved boy had been brought to sanctuary at Quadros, and, along with the three other surviving male children from Carno, he now constituted one of an extremely exclusive set. Quadros itself, nestling comfortably in the lee of the Razielim Fortress, was the largest of four Tithe Villages currently under the protection of this particular Vampire Clan. Although from the outside it boasted an air of well-maintained prosperity, its structure was in actuality defined somewhere between a refugee camp and a holy order. The denizens of the steadily expanding town were for the most part women whose menfolk had either been drafted for the nefarious Sarafan army - or killed by them; and holy men whose belief in ancient doctrines had earned them expulsion from their former parishes. Though life was not easy, the inhabitants would ever choose this occasionally arduous life of free choice and free worship over the restrictive impositions of the Sarafan regime. Again and again Isca's gaze was drawn to the Fortress looming above the village: his eyes darkened as an unwanted memory of that fateful day returned, accompanied as always by a hollow, sinking feeling in his gut. One thought alone gave hope to a mind still filled with the vengeance of an orphaned child. In a very short time, the Razielim would once again be recruiting potential candidates to join their fledgling ranks, and the young men of Quadros would be given the opportunity to prove themselves worthy of the honour. Isca would be among them - this he swore. The Sarafan knights would pay for what they had done to his parents. 

Since his bereavement, Isca had lived with two old aunties. In truth, the ancient crones were in no way related to his parents, but nevertheless, due to their kindness and doting manner, as such had he come to regard them. In return for their fostering of him, he stoically endured their descriptions of him to everyone within earshot as a 'strapping young lad', and their constant reminiscences of his behaviour in his toddling years. In addition, he tolerated without complaint their ardent cheek-pinching, and always listened respectfully when they insisted on telling him for the umpteenth time what a wonderful woman was Daera. As with most ladies in the later years of life, they showed their affection through the provision of enormous cooked dinners, impossibly outsized pastries and specially-prepared treats; as with most sixteen-year-old boys, one helping was never quite enough. The night before the Razielim were due to arrive for the selection, the aunties were outdoing themselves with the helpings of food, each labouring under the misconception that since this might well constitute the last time their charge ate human victuals, he must therefore make up tonight for an eternity of fasting. By the end of the feast, even Isca was ready to admit defeat. The lad sat back in his chair, slapping his distended belly and grinning his appreciation for the meal. 

"Ooh, he's got an appetite!" The old crone bared her gums and pinched the youth's cheek in approval. Isca endured her attention with a wry, indulgent smile.

"He's a growing boy, dear," advised the other, sagely.

The crone stood back and regarded the sated youngster critically, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. "I don't know where he puts it."

She was shoved to one side in short order as her companion shuffled across to the table with a pan brimming with pudding. 

"More custard, dear?"

The young man's grin widened.

The following day found Isca ready and willing to take on the challenge. Although he was aware that most of the female population of the town were distraught by the thought he might leave, he knew as well as they that if he was successful, he would quite likely still be a frequent visitor. Unlike some of the other candidates in his position, he never took advantage of his unique situation to be free with his affections: as much as the attention massaged his ego, leading to the occasional flirt with temptation, the last thing the youth wanted was a family tie when the opportunity for excitement and adventure loomed so close. Besides, the majority of the homely women inhabiting the village, though pleasant enough, did not really inspire him - with the marked exception of Maeve, the innkeeper's daughter. Golden haired, slim waisted and barely a few days younger than himself, she was often seen walking at his side of an evening - much to the envy of her friends. It was in this particular young lady's company he found himself that one pivotal afternoon, the pair of them sequestered behind the local tavern. He himself was fresh from working the fields, and covered in caked mud and bits of hay, which Maeve apparently found quite alluring. He'd surprised her into dropping her laundry basket as she made her way from the tavern garden, and they were now leaning against the inner wall as they indulged in the bittersweet mix of passion and chastity that mark the affections of youth.

"Don't go," murmured Maeve when she had an opportunity to speak. Her flushed face contradicted her request, and betrayed a barely-formed desire that she herself could hardly fathom yet. The youth ultimately became aware that she was not talking about their current situation.

He drew back from her slightly, his tone serious for once. "I've wanted nothing else for as long as I can remember." 

"But what if you don't pass the Trials?" Maeve insisted, "What will you do? Will you come back here?"

Isca considered this as he leaned one arm against the wall, a far-away smile on his face. 

"If I fail, I'll wander the world seeking adventure until I'm good enough." He told her, taking in the expanse of the tavern garden with a wave of his arm. His gaze quickly returned to the young girl, who was hanging on his every word. His smile became shrewd.

"Except I'm not going to fail. I'm going to pass all the Trials. . ." He moved away from the wall to give an energetic demonstration of how he was going to defeat whatever beasts he was expecting to fight, much to Maeve's delight. Isca then moved back to the admiring young woman, placing a hand against the wall either side of her as he continued. 

"Then, I'm going to come back here one night . . ." he paused, mischief written all over his face as he leaned closer to the girl, who was feigning fear while enjoying every minute of the young rascal's attention, "… and bite you!" He added a touch of realism to his threat by giving her a passionate kiss on the neck, whose results would likely earn them both a hiding from her grandmother. 

The seldom-heard clatter of iron-shod horses broke the young lovers' clinch, Isca's head snapping at once in the direction of the sound. This could mean one thing and one thing only: the seekers had come early. The two exchanged a glance, hers pleading, his regretful, before he pulled himself away from her embrace and darted into the street to locate the riders. He instantly recognised three of the four horsemen as members of the upper caste of the Clan. They were a familiar sight in the town: once a month, the Razielim Elite would come from the fortress to obtain the blood tithe that the townsfolk paid for their protection. In return, the denizens of Quadros could live out their lives the way they wished, free from the persecution of the Sarafan. Isca had often watched as the fearsome warriors descended into the town and disappeared into the self-same dwellings time and again. The youth rather got the impression that they came for more than just blood. More and more Isca wanted to join with these ancient creatures - even at sixteen, he was convinced that this was his destiny. Determination strengthened his resolve: he would face the Trials, and he would succeed.

With that thought foremost in his mind, the young man slipped past the dismounting warriors into the long barn that served at various times as meeting place, recreation hall, and place of worship. Belatedly, Isca remembered the state of his attire. As he glanced at his co-workers, he realised that they had spent some portion of the last half-hour getting cleaned up and donning fresh clothes. He had planned to wear his father's armour, in the vain hope that the more warlike he looked, the more likely they would be to choose him. He brushed ineffectually at the dried mud on his knees, and looked disconsolately at the grass stains that seemed almost luminous against the dull brown of his work clothes. He glanced again at the impeccable dress of the other candidates as he moved to stand with them, cursing himself for indulging his whims on so important an occasion. 

The candidates fell silent as two massive figures blotted out the sunlight that filtered through the hall doorway. The first was already known to some of the candidates as Gurt, the austere Fledgling Master. Despite his unaging body, he still managed to project an air of grizzled maturity, and his harsh reputation preceded him. The Fledge Master stood to one side, head inclined politely as the other figure strode into the hall. The young men stiffened, some standing instinctively to attention while others caught their breath as they finally beheld the fabled, seldom-seen Clan leader in the flesh.

Raziel's penetrating gaze missed nothing. It had been many years since he had sought fledges from Quadros: there were few enough males in this settlement as it was, and he had been forced to wait until the newest additions to its populace came of age. Although his Clan was not short of men – vampires not suffering from the disadvantage of a mortal lifespan – the recent increase in Sarafan activity around the borders of his lands had forced his hand. He had a feeling he would need all the reinforcements he could muster, before too long. His sense of snobbery precluded the option of creating fledges from the ranks of the enemy, and thus he had come again to scour the Tithe Villages for potential Initiates.

Gurt accompanied the Vampire Lord as they strolled past the candidates, ranged in a single row in the centre of the hall. Raziel nodded to each of them in turn, eyeing each shrewdly before coming to a halt at the end of the line. What with his youthful face, still bereft of all but the fluffiest of face-fuzz, and his filthy work clothes, Isca stood out like a sore thumb. 

"This one's too young." Gurt opined gruffly, singling out the red-faced youngster.

In his desperation not to be overlooked, Isca blurted out, "Please - let me try."

Raziel arched an eyebrow at the boy's audacity. As the Clan leader stepped closer, Isca became uncomfortably aware that this was not the kind, almost fatherly figure he remembered from his childhood meeting with him. The amber eyes were cold and calculating, and the intimidating form towered above him, darkening his vision. It occurred to the trembling boy that standing next to Raziel was like being buried in a snowdrift: he seemed almost to banish warmth and light from the air around him. Isca cursed his loose tongue.

"Even though to fail would mean your death?" intoned Raziel casually, gauging the youngster's reaction. "Are you prepared to risk your life in the attempt?"

The youth paled visibly. He had not realised that failure would entail such consequences. Nevertheless, his desire was as strong as ever – he was just glad Maeve was out of earshot.

"I won't fail." He said grittily.

Golden eyes narrowed in thought. Raziel scrutinized the boy, shortly recognising him as Darrin and Daera's kin. He should have known: there was something of the father's determination in the son's eyes. To Isca's dismay, Gurt continued to argue that he was too young, and, at the Fledgling Master's words, Raziel turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.

Several faces fell.

As Raziel reached the exit, he halted with his back to the room and gave an order to Gurt over his shoulder:

"Bring them all."

Isca's heart soared, and he grinned delightedly at the other candidates, all of whom returned his elation with smiles of their own: all that is, save one. The sallow-faced Poul was by far the eldest of the young men left in Quadros, and was evidently less than pleased at Isca's good fortune. He made his contempt of the youngster quite clear.

"I can't believe you came here dressed like that!"

Gurt, who had not yet left the hall, called out a reproving comment in a deep, booming voice that froze all present.

"Clothes do not make the man, Initiate." Feeling thoroughly chastised, Poul sulkily followed the others from the building.

As Isca emerged into the afternoon sunlight, he took another look at the magnificent leather armour worn by the Elite riders, a covetous expression on his awestruck face. He uttered his response in a low voice so that Gurt would not hear.

"I beg to differ."

*__

_Water seared vampire flesh in an insidious, incessant stream. A Turelim cackle punctuated a gurgling Razielim cry._


	3. The Trial

Boisterous laughter resounded from the walls of a massive antechamber, the echoes deadened by the insulation of the scarlet Clan banners that adorned its grey stone facades. Of the ten who had ascended from Quadros, eight remained, two having already entered into the company of the Clan Lord to face their Trials. Isca, bursting with pride at having made it this far, was loudly and playfully sparring with the others, their puerile bickering going some way to assuage their nervousness. Each had his own preconception of what the Trials would entail: most being of the opinion that they would be asked to prove their worth by tackling a Fledgling in single combat - but since their companions were not returning through the same door by which they had entered, there was no way to be certain. 

Isca was desperately hoping that the next time the Fledge Master came out, he would be the one to enter – he was anxious not to be last. The wait was almost intolerable, and the snide comments aimed at him almost incessantly by Poul were not helping calm his nerves. Abruptly, the massive double doors creaked open, and every eye in the antechamber locked on the portal. Gurt's pockmarked face appeared, set in grim, unfriendly lines. He beckoned to Isca, and, with the gesture, the boy's mindset turned through one hundred and eighty degrees. He would have given anything for Gurt to have called on any other in the room. However, there was no refusing this summons, and so, with his friends clapping him on the back and wishing him luck, he swallowed hard and followed the Fledge Master into the chamber, his legs reminding him of the jelly his aunties used to make.

Having spent the majority of his childhood years in a rural village, and later a small town, Isca was quite unprepared for the sheer scale of the Hall in which he now stood with mouth agape. He guessed that the town hall in Quadros would probably have fit in here four times over, with room to spare. Long rows of columns supported a curved roof of smoked glass, which offered natural illumination without permitting ingress to the fatal rays of Nosgoth's dying sun.  Giant statues added to the titanic aspect of the room. At the far end, a wide dais sported a steadily burning pyre and a rather nondescript high-backed chair: Isca wondered vaguely why the Clan leader had not opted for a more opulent throne.

A moment later, all such thoughts were banished from the youth's head as Raziel entered through a door at the rear left of the dais. He paused briefly at the far end of the room, cleaning his claws with a dark, bloodstained rag that looked suspiciously like the tunic the previous candidate had been wearing. The vampire raised his eyes to see that the boy had noticed this fact and smiled nastily, baring fanged canines. Isca gulped and, the Fledge Master's insistence, wobbled forward to stop a good twenty feet distant from the Vampire Lord, his eyes on the ground.

Raziel nodded to Gurt in an implicit order to leave. Eventually, satisfied with his ablutions, he cast the rag aside and seated himself in his chair. He steepled his claws before him, eyeing the youth thoughtfully.

"You are Darrin's son, are you not?"

Isca nodded dumbly, his gaze locked on a crack in the floor before him. He seemed to have lost the power of speech.

Long seconds passed.

"I imagine you harbour some resentment towards the Sarafan after their actions towards your parents."

Isca this time managed a croaky, "Yes."

Silence.

"I have no need of little boys whose minds are clouded with thoughts of petty vengeance."

The sharpness in Raziel's tone caused Isca's head to shoot up, meeting the Clan leader's steady, derisive gaze.

"Neither do I have need of brainless oxen."

Isca paled – he had been hoping one of the Trials might be a test of strength - he was already able to wrestle most of his fellows to a standstill, even his elders. 

"The attainment of a Vampiric constitution endows Fledglings with our strength - regardless of their previous condition." Raziel was not looking at him, his attention focussed somewhere far away beyond the ornate curlicues of the columns.

Isca determined not to lose hope. Strength was not his only asset.

"And as for combat skills – those too can be imparted during training."

Isca was growing more concerned by the second. What did he have apart from these things? And why then had he wasted the last seven years of his life building up his strength and learning to fight?

"Your fellow Initiates were labouring under false impressions," he stated dryly, flexing his claws. "These Trials have nothing to do with physical attributes." The Clan leader finally turned his head to fix Isca with the full force of his inhuman glare.

"Presence of mind, strength of purpose, devotion to a cause. These are things that are inherent in a son of man. They cannot be learned or developed."

Isca nodded slowly: he was beginning to understand.

"This Trial is a measure of your devotion, a test of your will."

The young man straightened, holding his chin up. "In that case, you will not find me wanting."

Raziel gave a half-smile, and his voice in response was almost a purr. 

"Is that so?" His eyes narrowed, testing the boy's resolve. 

"Then prove it, Initiate." He graced the youth with that cruel, inimitable smile.

"Bleed for me."

Isca blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Raziel scowled. "Did the Sarafan leave you deaf as well as orphaned? Or are you just too brainless to understand a simple command? I need men who can obey without question."

Despite the negative effect the scathing remarks were having on his emotional state, on some level Isca understood the reasons for the goading. Gritting his teeth, he withdrew his hunting knife from its sheath in his boot, sparing a moment to let his eyes wander over its cruel length before placing its icy edge against his wrist.

Raziel gripped the armrests of his chair and leaned forward, his clawed hands scraping splinters from the wood: the Initiate was actually going to do it. He had already been forced to dispatch the two previous candidates for their refusal to honour him thus, and the youth's struggle was poignant. It was evident that his expectations of the Trial had been vastly different, and the prospect of spilling his blood in some pointless act, here in the heart of the Vampire stronghold, was vying with his survival instinct. A heartbeat more and the knife bit into flesh, causing a pool of viscous liquid to form briefly before the excess began to overflow onto the ground.

Isca stared at the wound, mesmerised by the depth of colour and the sheer quantities that trickled relentlessly from his arm. A harsh voice shattered his daydream.

"Fill this."

Isca glanced upwards just in time to catch the goblet that was hurled at him. Since his right hand was still engaged with the knife, he moved his left to catch it awkwardly, sending a spray of red liquid across the grey slate floor. Sheathing the knife, he transferred the goblet to his other hand and caught as much of the free-flowing liquid as he could. The sight of his own life-blood pouring into a drinking vessel would have made the whole thing seem a trifle unreal – were it not for the insistent ache in his left wrist.

The chore completed, he looked to the Vampire to await his next command. Raziel beckoned imperiously. With his legs feeling more and more like they had been reformed in rubber, Isca approached the dais. The Vampire Lord's glare left him with no confusion as to his next required action, and consequently, Isca knelt before him and offered up the chalice.

Raziel allowed the arm to remain outstretched before him, savouring the scent of fresh blood as much as the obvious difficulty the Initiate was having in keeping the goblet steady - his strength was waning. Relenting at last, Raziel took the vessel from him with surprising gentleness and drained it in a single quaff, shuddering momentarily as the rich liquid brought its usual thrill. He then regarded the boy, whose head was still bowed, his young frame shaking and pale from the loss of blood. He drummed his claws on the side of the goblet as he pondered his course of action. True, the Initiate had passed the test, showing his devotion by putting his own life at risk, but his own earlier comment had been true: minds driven by vengeance had a tendency to become unfocused and unbalanced. The boy could turn out to be a liability. Then again, he had already lost a couple of the Initiates to these Trials – one who was willing to pay the blood sacrifice should not be overlooked.

Raziel humphed decisively and held out his hand. The youth raised his head at the movement and stared a moment before interpreting the silent command. He placed his bleeding wrist in the vampire's claw and his eyes sought the ground again as excruciating pain stabbed through his arm. The temptation to wrench his limb free for the Clan leader's freezing grasp was almost insurmountable, but somehow, though a combination of lip-biting and fist-clenching, Isca endured it. Presently, the severity of the blood loss caused his body to tremble as though with a palsea, and he knelt with his forehead down on the cool stone of the dais step, wondering how it was possible to feel like his blood was on fire when there was so little left in his body. At length, he felt his arm released from its iron restraint, which unfortunately, had constituted his only means of support, and he consequently tumbled from the dais to lie sprawled on the floor of the hall, his face pale and waxy, his heartbeat slow and weak. He lay almost still, his body still wracked by fleeting, trembling spasms, and his breath coming in halting gasps as a looming shadow darkened his vision.

He managed to flick his gaze to one side to see luminous pools glowing like sunlight reflected from amber in the dark depths of the Clan leader's face.

"And so another light is extinguished," intoned Raziel, kneeling at the Isca's side, "And added to the legions of the dark." Extending a claw, he drew its edge across his own wrist, a thin, crimson line blooming reluctantly from the marble flesh.

Isca felt as though his insides were shrivelled, as though every drop of moisture had been burned from his being, and despite this, his senses remained tortuously clear. And so it was when the first splatter of cool, thick liquid hit his face, it was partly human thirst that drove him to drink. His first draught reminded him of the sensation of imbibing cold, honeyed cider on a summer afternoon: it quenched sweetly, cooling the fires in his veins. The second mouthful burned his tongue and left his throat raw, infusing his system with the desire for more; the third sent an intoxicating Thirst through every fibre of his being, and his own hands clamped tightly about his benefactor's arm, intent on drawing in as much of the precious fluid as possible before the Vampire Lord stemmed the flow.

Eventually, unable to drink any more, Isca broke contact and slumped back to the ground. As the light dimmed, he began to realise that there was no way the gratitude he felt could ever be expressed; no way that the power that surged through him could ever be named or quantified; no way that he could even consider anything other than devoting the rest of his existence to proving himself worthy of the honour that had been bestowed upon him. And Raziel knew it.

The Vampire Lord returned to the dais and seated himself in his chair once more, barking an order for Gurt to come and take the Initiate away, and to bring the next one in. As he watched the Fledgling Master heave the corpse over his shoulder, he noticed that the boy had died looking enlightened.

Now if only the rest were up to the challenge . . .

*

_A soul cried out in despair as the abyss claimed its victim again, and again, and again._

Review Response:

**Shadowrayne****:** YOU FIGURED IT OUT!!!!! *bounces around madly for a while she lobs an ICBCM (Inter-continental Belgian chocolate missile) in Shadowrayne's general direction* I'm so happy! 

Btw, sorry I didn't get back to you the other night – it took longer than we thought to re-house the tarantulas - little devils!

**Vladimir****'s Angel: Thank you. And thank you again. And yes, that is where the fetish comes from. Oh, and about your dissolving catsuit: you said you wanted a special one, so I made yours out of liquorice.**

Raziel: *wistfully* Aww, I used to like liquorice. . .

**Silmuen****:** Thanks very much – glad you like. Yup, boredom's a great catalyst ;) As for writers' blocks, yup, I have a whole tower made out of them. J. Anyway, never mind reviewing, update Firstborn! I demand it!

**AmuseMe****:** Ta for the review – you may have gathered by now I have a passing interest in your fic too!

**ArchEnemy****/Ebony:** Ooh! I instigated some Highland Flinging. *beams proudly* Oh no . . . for goodness' sake don't get me started on the cheese spread . . . you wouldn't like me when I'm on cheese spread . . . I nearly dumped my boyfriend 'cos he stole my cheese spread . . . Cheese spread is the wellspring of all life, without it we would surely die, or go insane, or . . . something. 


	4. Ambush

Nights lengthened to weeks, months into years, and with the fullness of time, Raziel's newborns were beginning to come into their own – and not a moment too soon. Outside the relatively safe confines of the Razielim fortress, times were changing. The Sarafan at Meridian had come under new leadership, which, aside from making the Sarafan a more credible enemy, had also, bewilderingly enough, returned them to older and more traditional methods of combat. The Vampire Lords, for once, had some measure of respect for this new, fairer adversary. Isca, unaffected by the changing whims of his Lords, still despised them with every fibre of his being, and found the idea of a noble enemy small consolation for the loss of his parents. He for one was glad when Raziel declared that their training was sufficient and began to take him and his fellow Trial survivors into battle against the humans.

The fledglings had come to understand from the earliest times that the nature of their training was twofold: while Gurt undertook the majority of their weapons and combat training, their instruction in the ways of Vampire lore lay always with their sire. Thus had it been over the course of the years: the Fledge Master imparting the physical skills and the necessary sense of martial judgement, while Raziel taught them the more esoteric ideals, along with their own Clan lore; and never was there a pupil more suited or more able to learn from the either Master than Isca, who devoured every word as though he subsisted on pure knowledge. 

Raziel had not been slow to notice this fact, and was becoming increasingly impressed with the boy's natural skills and willingness to learn. The fledge had done well in their recent escapade beneath the Sun Temple, overcoming his natural fear of water to serve his Lord, and in some ways it was a pity the youngster had not shown these innate qualities sooner. It was obvious that the young man did not relish having Poul as his superior, but he had been an obvious choice to lead the six Initiates who had passed the Trial, and would remain nominal leader of the group until he proved otherwise.

Tonight, Raziel was taking them hunting. Although he was well aware that they were able to take down individuals when they hunted alone, he wished to see how they would fare as a group under Poul's command, and for this reason – along with his other motive of obtaining several live prisoners - he took them to the boundaries of the Sarafan lands. He had lain the trap himself: his plan being to make a show of attacking a lone woman, with the intention of luring a Sarafan contingent of some twenty men into a blind canyon. The stage set, he then handed control of the group over to Poul, who quickly shared his own plan with his companions. This done, the fledglings ascended the canyon walls above the petrified woman, who, when Raziel began a rather melodramatic and over-the-top impression of a hungry vampire, obligingly screamed for help. 

True to form, the Sarafan were duped, rushing into the ravine with bold cries and rash challenges – they were more than a match for a single undead leech. 

"Get away from the lady, you parasite!" called the foremost knight as he careened into the canyon.

Raziel turned his head quickly in the direction of the challenge, and with considerable effort managed to force an expression approximating mild fear onto his unwilling features. He ran through a series of possible rejoinders as the knights trouped into the ravine: 'Please don't kill me,' and 'I will release her if you spare my life,' quickly followed 'Oh no! Not the Sarafan Knights!' on the scrapheap of ideas. Raziel contented himself with an annoyed hiss instead: the knights looked suitably unimpressed.

As the scene below unfolded, Poul gave the order, and two fledglings plummeted into the canyon behind the armoured knights, blocking their exit. A heartbeat later, the other four descended into the pit while Raziel made good his own escape with the woman over his shoulder – it seemed a shame to waste the bait.

At first, the plan went smoothly and by the numbers, the fledglings, who were still tentatively feeling the extent of their power, subduing the knights as they came into range. They were under orders to take at least half of the party alive: Raziel had need of them. The rest were fair game, and their Lord watched with approval from where he crouched at the top of the ravine as his offspring cleanly parted the Sarafan from their lives, or rendered them unconscious with flailing fists. He had to stifle a laugh as Isca slipped in the pooling viscera and landed in a rather undignified manner on his rear end - that was where the cloven feet would come in useful when they developed in a few years' time. Seeing that Poul had the situation under control, he cast a comment over his shoulder at the woman, who was quietly creeping towards the deeply forested area at his back.

"The woods are full of wolves."

The young woman froze.

"They cannot be reasoned with."

She swallowed hard and remained where she was, indecisive, as the shadowy figure of the Clan lord rose to its full height and stretched languorously, cracking its knuckles. She watched in apprehension as he turned to face her, unholy fires glowing in the depths of his eyes. 

"For that matter," he commented, "Neither can I."

Raziel was feeling decidedly lazy tonight, and in no mood for chasing his prey through the wolf-ridden forest - hence, the pursuit was over swiftly, a single pounce bringing the woman to the ground with a solid thud and a muffled scream. A glimpse of over-bright, impossibly round eyes, a gasp of terror from pale pink lips, then nothing but the red haze that obscured all vision as fangs found flesh. A few minutes later, a scuffle from below disturbed his feed, his sensitive ears detecting sounds that ought not to be. Rising reluctantly from the half-drained body, he glanced over the edge of the ravine, instantly cursing himself on several counts; for taking his eyes off the fledges, for permitting himself to be distracted by his meal, and for allowing Poul to take command.

He took in the scene's story in several swift, appraising glances. The human contingent had benefited from unexpected reinforcements – mercenaries by the look of them - and instead of alerting him, or ordering the fledges to retreat, Poul had decided to take them all on. The fledglings had struggled to take down the Sarafan, mainly because they had been ordered to keep some of them alive: the youngsters would ever find maiming harder than killing. The addition of the mercenaries to the equation had left the fledges trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place. Everywhere the sire looked he saw his offspring struggling to force back the new arrivals, several of whom were armed with long spears. This left the fledges with precious little room to manoeuvre, a fact which was forcing them to fight the humans on their own terms.

As he watched Poul make another tactical blunder which forced one of the fledglings onto the waiting spears of the mercenaries, Raziel's patience snapped. He dropped lithely into the canyon, wading through the ranks of the enemy like so much water. Where his progress was impeded, he swept the humans aside with devastating force, sometimes mashing two or three at a time into pulp against the unyielding canyon walls. One idiotic mercenary apparently fancied his chances against Kain's firstborn tonight, but Raziel was in no mood for playing. As the foolish creature rushed him with spear outstretched before him, the vampire sidestepped the strike, seized the haft and wrenched it from the human's grasp before lifting him from the ground and snapping him like a piece of driftwood over his knee. With the Vampire Lord added to the mix, the struggle was over quickly, the outcome inevitable. Silence descended over the ravine like a pall, steam rising in hazy clouds from the mangled bodies of mercenaries and knights alike. Poul, who knew full well he had failed in his duty – and the likely results of such an admission - was ready to say anything that might enable him to ingratiate himself again with his master. He dropped to his knees in a gesture of contrition.

"M-my Lord, it was not our fault – the mercenaries took us by surprise and -"

Raziel, who was staring regretfully at the fallen body of one of his fledglings, now turned his cold, disapproving gaze on the wittering youth. 

"Nothing you can say will bring back this fledge."

Isca was not the only one to wonder at his Lord's choice of reprimand. He had been half-expecting to see Poul's head rolling on the floor after that little fiasco. He kept his fingers crossed – the night was still young.

"He was born of my blood, and your stupidity cost him his life."

Poul opened and closed his mouth rapidly, but no sound issued. Seemingly having said his piece, the vampire averted his gaze from the object of his distaste. 

"You are not worthy to lead." 

Poul seemed to retreat into himself; his shoulders hunching as he drew his legs up to his chest. Somehow his master's loss of faith in him was more hurtful than any physical pain the inventive Clan Lord could possibly have inflicted.

"I-I . . ." stammered Poul.

Raziel ignored him, stepping over bodies to reach the canyon exit.

"Get the living to the wagon," he ordered, and, pointing a bloodstained claw directly at Isca's nose, he added in a caustic tone: 

"And **you** - make sure nothing goes wrong this time."

Isca's eyes goggled, belatedly remembering to incline his head in a dual gesture of acknowledgement and respect. Despite the harsh tone of Raziel's words, he knew that trust was being placed in him, and the butterflies in his stomach began to conflict with the fireworks that were going off in celebration in his head. He consequently oversaw the operation with a smug grin, which he flashed as often as possible in Poul's direction. 

The Razielim leader did nothing without good reason, and this night's 'hunt' was no exception. In a few days' time, his fellow Clan Lords would arrive at his territory for the Fledgling Tourney. Although on the surface this marked an opportunity for each Clan's fledglings to prove their worth in single combat, it was also an excuse for diversion from the dreary, unending conquest of the human lands – and for revelry of suitably vampiric proportions. Raziel knew, as does every good host, that it is a sign of good breeding to offer one's guests appropriate refreshments.

Consequently, over the following few days, the Sarafan prisoners found to their surprise that they were kept well-fed and watered in comfortable conditions, the last few hours before the start of the tournament only serving to increase their bewilderment, as they were offered large quantities of a rather fine vintage of wine.


	5. Tournament

In a domed arena at the northern edge of Raziel's territory, the contest was about to begin.  Ranks and tiers were filled with representatives from the various Clans, the low hubbub of undead voices echoing in a misleading pattern from the rounded walls.  Below the stands lay the arena itself, little more than a rough, earthen circle, surrounded by high walls whose surfaces were stained a rusty brown from the blood of who knew how many hundreds of competitors throughout the years.  At one edge of the arena was a raised platform, cordoned off from the rest of the stands – here the Clan leaders would enjoy an uninterrupted view of the proceedings while enjoying their host's hospitality.  As the sun set fully, Raziel turned in his chair to witness the arrival of his guests, greeting each cordially as they took their seats next to him.  

"Melchiah!  It has been too long." He grasped his brother's arm warmly, gesturing to a chair at his right.  

"Dumah – good to see you, brother."  Raziel's eyes narrowed suspiciously.  His sibling was looking extraordinarily self-satisfied, even for him.

"Turel . . ." Raziel halted, his face falling as he noted the burden his closest brother was carrying, "You brought your own food."

Turel replied with a dismissive wave. "Just something I picked up along the way."

"Anyone would think you didn't _like drunken Sarafan. . ."_

"What vintage?"

"Forty-five."

Turel promptly dropped his proposed meal over the side into the stands below, where it was devoured in short order.

He rubbed his claws together in anticipation.  "I should have known you'd spare no expense."

The contest soon began in earnest, the liberal provision of intoxicating human blood going some way to heighten the rambunctious atmosphere in the arena.  Although the proceedings involved no small measure of violence, the contest was more of a demonstration, an opportunity for the newest additions to each Clan to show off their skills against those of other Clans, as well as providing entertainment for their Lords. The fights were almost invariably called off before mortal wounds were inflicted – fledglings were generally far too precious a commodity to lose.  

Rahab shook his head as another of his fledges staggered defeated from the arena, the Turelim who had bested him making irreverent gestures in his wake.

"That's three in a row.  I'm going to have my Fledge Master flogged."

Dumah nudged him and whispered across in a conspiratorial fashion.  "This next match will cheer you up.  I have a surprise."  

Rahab raised arched eyebrows in query, and shortly, he understood.  As the swaggering Turelim left the stage, he was replaced by a lithe figure sporting Dumah's Clan symbol on a contoured metal breastplate.  Breeches of smooth, soft leather smothered long, slender legs, and accoutrements of fine copper-coloured maille broke up the rest of the solid black armour. The female fledge coolly eyed the ranks above her, which had, since her entrance, descended into an uproar that bordered on a riot.  She made a slow circuit of the pit with her sword drawn, patently basking in the lewd admiration of the predominantly male crowd, before halting in front of her Lord and bowing her head in deference.

Raziel was not the only one to look at the smugly grinning Dumah in surprise.  Although the siring of female fledges was far from unheard-of, the Vampire Lords generally created such as this Dumahim for reasons other than combat.

From the opposite side of the arena, the female's opponent entered.  Isca, his own weapon at the ready, glanced around at the spectators, wondering why the clamour had increased so dramatically in the last few minutes.  An appraising glance at his challenger gave a lucid explanation for the screeching howls emanating from above him.  He scowled as the Dumahim woman turned to face him, her face devoid of emotion, her frame eminently poised to strike.  

Thoughts thundered through the riled fledgling's mind: was this some kind of a joke?  Was their opinion of him so low that they put him in the arena with a female? He half-suspected that Poul had had a hand in this.  Whatever the reason, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him belittle his skills thus.

Isca took one last glance at the crowd, sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest.

Raziel's eyes narrowed.  What in Kain's name did the fledge think he was doing?  Did he not realise that the danger from this Dumahim was real?  

The female, tired of waiting for the Razielim whelp to attack, crossed the arena in a single bound and aimed a vicious slice at the unprepared youth's arm.  Isca reeled from the blow but remained where he was, arms still folded stubbornly across his body.  Dumah laughed uproariously.  Several of his siblings joined in, shortly aiming a barrage of comments at their humiliated host.

"What have you been teaching them instead of combat skills, Raziel?  Needlework?"

"What's he planning to do, stare her to death?"

"Perhaps he's hoping she'll drown in his blood."

"He does **have** a sword, doesn't he?"

Ignoring the comments, Raziel half-rose and gripped the side of the stand, grinding his teeth and willing Isca to defend himself, retaliate, rescind – anything but this embarrassing display of inaction before his brothers.  Blasted fledge - this was no time to act out of some misplaced sense of chivalry! He grimaced again as the female fledge thrust her blade straight at Isca's thigh, the keen edge slicing through the reinforced leather and releasing a second stream of blood. 

And so the 'fight' continued. Now and again the Dumahim would press home an attack, and Isca would either dodge out of the way or take the blow.  The female was becoming increasingly irate and close to losing her hold on her temper: Isca was becoming increasingly bloody.  The Dumahim fledgling was well aware that this match was for entertainment only – those who proved themselves valorous in these contests would be given accolades which would go some way to helping them achieve the coveted status of their Lords' Elite in the future. However, the Razielim's persistent and offensive refusal to fight her was taxing her patience, and ultimately, when she dealt him a vicious, gouging blow across the back to which he still didn't respond, her rage supplanted her decorum. She dropped her sword and leaped at him, tearing at the infuriating bastard's chest and throat with tooth and nail, reverting to her natural weapons in her fury.  

At the female's attack, the crowd's mood transformed, the sight of flesh tearing beneath angered talons bringing out the demon in each of them.  In addition, the one-sided duel had fired both the Razielim and the Dumahim to the point where naught but the death of their rivals' representative would placate them.  They began to demand to see blood spilt. The chaotic shouting slowly transposed into a rhythmic, insistent chorus, the pounding of clawed fists and cloven feet adding a sonorous bass note to the din.  This was no mantra of support - this was a death chant. Raziel frowned in alarm and clenched his fists until dark blood began to pool in his claws: he had few enough fledges from these recent Trials as it was. 

Isca, meanwhile, was trying to keep the woman at arms' length as best he could, his new, primal instincts conflicting with his human father's deeply ingrained lessons regarding the treatment of women.  It was no easy matter to keep the fledge at bay: whatever else she might or might not be, she was certainly a well-trained fighter, and his own reflexes were slowed by the wounds he had incurred.  Isca was fast approaching the point where he would either have to yield to his vampiric training, or sacrifice himself for his refusal to let go of his human ideals.  The realisation did little to help his situation.  Ultimately, his distraught gaze caught that of Raziel, and his heart lurched sickeningly in his chest.  His mentor's face was a mask of barely-suppressed, mortified rage.  Holding the fledgling's gaze with eyes that warned against defiance, the Vampire Lord drew a claw sideways across his throat in a swift, unmistakeable gesture.  The roar of the crowd was almost deafening.  Isca took one last look at the furiously biting and clawing Dumahim before seizing the hissing creature by the neck and swinging her round to face the elated, bloodthirsty crowd.  The chanting and pounding doubled in intensity, matching the thundering rhythm of his own heartbeat.  His vision was a swirling blur of bared fangs and pumping fists, and, overriding it all, his Lord's blazing gold eyes.  Steeling himself for the symbolic act he was about to undertake, he raised his own hand into the air in a joint salute and acknowledgement of his master's order, taking a firmer grip on the struggling female's throat as he did so.  Forming the fingers of his right hand into a point, he used the full weight of his right side to plunge it into the fledgling's back, forcing his arm in until his searching fingers found their goal. The Dumahim's eyes bulged.  Then, with his jaw clenched and his eyes locked on those of his master, Isca proceeded to tear out the creature's heart, which came loose of its host's convulsing frame with a reluctant squelch.  With the crowd howling in approbation, he held the still-pulsating trophy aloft for all to see, while the Dumahim fledge slumped lifeless to the ground at his feet.

The Clans went wild, the Lieutenants rising to their feet along with their men.

Turel reached across and thumped the statue-still Raziel repeatedly on the back in a gesture of approval.

"Oh bravo, Raziel!  Your fledge is almost as much of a showman as you are – did you put him up to it?"

Raziel shook his head distractedly, his eyes fixed on the creature who had almost shamed him.  

Isca stared back blankly, his vision blinded by the death mask of the woman at his feet, his ears deaf to the riotous appreciation of his audience.  

The Vampire Lord made a grim vow: when he got his claws on that fledgling, he was going to wish he had never been reborn.

*

_"Wake up. **Wake up!  I want you to be conscious for this."**_

_Eyelids flickered weakly in response, only to jolt open in agony as the sun planted searing kisses in a long, blistering line from neck to navel._

_"Now that I have your attention, we can begin."_

Review Response:

**Silmuen: **

Er . . .thanks for the review . . . *looks really puzzled and goes back to read chapter 3* 

Just trying to figure out what it was in that chapter that got you all hot under the collar . . . ?! I mean if it was chapter 7 I could understand it. Muahaha! *wanders off to re-read the horrendously fluffy chapter she hasn't posted yet*

Raziella D.Reaver 

Glad you liked it, and yup, there's quite a bit more to this one yet . . .

**Vladimir's Angel: **

Yes, clever-clogs, you guessed right, 'twas a mental challenge.  Sorry for the shuddery bits – Even I didn't know they were coming until I wrote them!


	6. The Thirst

Deserts were not dry. 

In fact, in Isca's opinion, deserts had no concept of the meaning of words such as 'parched', or 'arid', or even 'desiccated'. Not even the wind-blasted wasteland outside the Sanctuary of the Clans (which he had been fortunate enough to see on one unforgettable occasion) could ever hope to sympathise with the sheer, burning dehydration with which the fledgling was afflicted. It filled every second of every waking moment – of which there was a surfeit, the Thirst precluding the possibility of his stealing a moment's respite through the healing embrace of fledgling sleep - and tainted his every thought, no matter how unrelated it was to the sensation of drinking fresh blood. 

Raziel was refusing to let him hunt.

On some level, he understood that he was being punished for his action – or lack thereof - at the Fledgling Tournament. However, understanding his predicament did not help him to bear the unfair weight he felt had been imposed on him, and by and by, Isca's existence was starting to gall him. As the nights dragged on, the young vampire's thoughts were increasingly consumed with a red need, an all-pervading craving that left little room for other considerations. Surely his Lord must relent soon? After all, mused the half-starved fledge, the other Clan Lords had thought his performance high entertainment. 

Apparently, Raziel had not been so amused. 

Dusk saw two figures on horseback depart the Razielim stronghold, a third horse trailing riderless at the rear. The journey, though not overly long, was by its very nature an arduous trek for the thirsting fledgling. Every furtive movement in the bushes; every flitting shadow that raced across the moonlit ground; every unusual night sound was a lone human begging to have its throat cut, and its lifeblood leeched. Isca began to wonder how long a fledge could hold out without sustenance before it went mad. Shortly, he observed that they had crossed into Melchiah's territory, and, to his relief, Raziel drew to a halt before a small stone sanctuary set into a hillside. 

The Clan Lord shot a surreptitious glance at the agitated youngster. While Isca had indeed served him well over the last five years, his behaviour at the Tourney had alerted him to the fact that the boy was holding on to far too many of his old human ideals. Not only were these unnecessary, but they forewarned of future hindrances to the execution of his will. He planned to take steps to rectify this. Tonight, it was blatantly obvious that Isca was in the grip of the later stages of the Thirst: he was eyeing everything as though it were a potential meal, and was starting to show the bluish pallor and muscular spasms that were the characteristic withdrawal symptoms of his particular curse. The Vampire Lord had therefore decided to test the strength of his fledge's devotion to its utmost. He had already fed in front of the thirsting youth before leaving the Razielim grounds, and while he was aware that he was being hard on the boy, he saw in him the fallow seed of potential, and that was too rare a quality to waste. Besides, Raziel by his very nature thrived on the discomfiture of others. 

He would, of course, allow the boy to feed tonight, but only when the test was accomplished to his satisfaction. 

"I have a task for you."

Isca stood to attention as well as he could, his system wracked by frequent shudders - and gnawing pains that seemed to be eating away at his guts from the inside.

"The Sarafan army is camped near here tonight. I want you to take a message to their leader."

Isca's jaw dropped, despite himself. This was surely a death sentence.

Raziel grinned at his young aide's expression, giving voice to a calming chuckle. 

"You need not fear them tonight – it is Relstadt Night, and not even they will dishonour the truce."

"Yes, my Lord. What is the message?" Isca asked. He ground his teeth audibly as he thought of entering the enemy camp – the enemy to whom he owed a bloody revenge – while the Thirst was on him, and still endeavouring to do his Lord's bidding. He had no idea whether or not he possessed the necessary willpower to complete the task. Nevertheless, with the message fixed in his mind, he took the reins of the spare mount in one hand, and spurred his own horse in the direction of the Sarafan camp. Despite his master's assurances, he was in no way consoled by the nebulous status of 'truce' that existed for this one night of the year, and began to wonder if he would live to see another night. 

Isca roped the horses together at some distance from the noise and light of the campfire, and began to circle around the group of humans, all of whom were completely oblivious to his presence. He allowed himself some small measure of superior satisfaction at this: if the situations were reversed, a human in his position would have been sensed, captured and, quite likely, devoured by now. Isca immediately wished he had not envisioned feeding: his stomach now felt as though it were trying to eat itself again. As the fledgling hovered at the edge of the circle of light projected by the fire, trying to come up with a plan that did not involve him walking straight into the middle of the Sarafan knights and asking them to take him to their leader, he spotted a most unexpected sight. The person he sought, the Sarafan P'ramma, was seated alone beneath a tree not twenty paces from where he stood, cradling a wineskin. 

Not a little puzzled by her behaviour, he nonetheless thanked the Dark Gods for his luck, and approached with a fair amount of noise, so as not to surprise her into shouting for help. As he drew closer, he was struck again by the woman's appearance: her long, chestnut hair, green eyes and unusual build made her stand out from any of the southern castes with which he was acquainted: he supposed she must hail from northern stock. Casting such frivolous musings aside, he stepped into the woman's line of sight, causing her to leap to her feet, where she remained, swaying unsteadily until he informed her of his Lord's request to meet with him.

It took precious little time to convince the Sarafan leader to accompany him, as Raziel apparently possessed some documents which were of such interest to the woman that she was willing to abandon the relative safety of her camp and head off into the uncertain darkness with a servant of the enemy. Unarmed at that. Isca reflected on these circumstances as he held the horse steady for the rapidly sobering woman to mount, and soon found himself speculating on whether it was his Lord's intention to corrupt the P'ramma tonight. These ideas continued to circulate in his head as they approached the Sanctuary in silence, the young vampire all too aware of the heat emanating from the woman beside him. Her heartbeat, accelerated as much by anticipation of the upcoming meeting as by the large quantities of wine in her bloodstream, was like the tattoo of a thousand drums, beating directly in the needy fledgling's ear. Isca bit his lip, causing his own blood to flow – it did nothing for the Thirst. The fledge urged his mount to greater speed: if they did not reach the sanctuary soon, not only was he going to fail in his latest mission, but the Sarafan were going to be looking for a new leader.

To say that Isca was relieved to reach the Melchahim sanctuary would have been tantamount to saying that vampire-haunted humans were relieved to see the dawn. When the unwieldy door had scraped to a close, sealing the Sarafan leader inside with his master, the fledgling placed his back to the rough stone wall and slid slowly to the ground, eyes closed against the cruel, gnawing cravings. The pangs were increasing in frequency and strength, his every breath sending fiery twinges through every muscle, every nerve; his teeth ached; his head was pounding, and to top it all off, he knew he was a good half-hour's ride from the nearest village – not that he would dare defy Raziel's will. Isca, resigned to his fate, buried his head in his hands and waited. 

The meeting was concluded more quickly than he had expected, the sanctuary door scraping open less than an hour later to allow egress to a most bewildered-looking P'ramma. Isca's eyes fastened onto her departing form, the predator in him anticipating and following every movement, while the vampire in him prayed to whatever Gods might watch over fledglings that Raziel would relent and allow him to hunt soon. His own wrist was starting to look tasty. 

For that matter, so was the horse.

At his Lord's command, Isca entered the stone building, his slowly evolving fingers crossed in hope that the words that came out of his master's mouth would be: 'Well done, fledge. Now go and feed before you fall over,' or 'You have served me well, Isca, and you have suffered enough. Indulge your Thirst.' 

The clan leader's comment sent the young man's spirits plummeting into another spiral of dismay. Raziel wanted the fledge to hunt for him.

Isca had never tracked down a human so quickly in his entire unlife. His senses were raw by this time, his ears and eyes sending signals to his brain in blaring stereo and gaudy technicolour, and the lone vampire hunter camped two miles from the sanctuary might as well have had a flashing neon sign above his head, stating 'Free Food.' 

Raziel watched with great amusement as his fledge dragged the struggling hunter across the threshold, almost instantly proffering the human towards him in a gesture that reminded him of nothing so much as a housecat offering a dead bird to its owner. He suppressed a chuckle as he rose and circled the two figures. He nodded briefly to the youth as he took the vampire hunter by the scruff of the neck, and Isca, with obvious effort, released him and took a step back. 

The Vampire Lord pulled the human's head to one side and eyed the exposed neck lazily, as though deciding whether it was worth the effort to take a bite. 

Isca subconsciously licked his lips, unable to take his eyes off the pulsing jugular.

As though having reached a decision, Raziel sank his fangs into the hunter's flesh, drinking deeply at first, then allowing a large amount to overspill, blatantly wasting the feed.

The fledge clenched his fists and bared his teeth in a snarl, the latter stages of the Thirst beginning to manifest themselves in the uncontrolled rage that was starting to seep into his expression.

Raziel allowed himself a satisfied smile before dropping the still-living hunter to the ground. He fixed his fledgling with a knowing stare that also spoke eloquently of the pleasure he had derived from the torment. Isca was ready.

"Go."

It took the fledgling a few moments for the command and its implicit permission to filter through to his consciousness. He glanced warily at his Lord, who was smiling at him, the disturbing expression on his pallid features lying somewhere between approval and triumph. Isca did not need to be told twice, and with the briefest of nods, he tore off on horseback for the nearest human settlement. He was fully aware that he had but a few hours before dawn, and his haste – along with the compelling force of the Thirst - made him reckless. It is often said that children learn by example, and that constant exposure to certain practices invokes analogous behaviour: Isca's submersion in the influence of Raziel's sadistic whims had brought out the sadist in him, and so it was that when the fledgling descended into the sleeping village under the full thrall of fledgling Thirst, he knew that nothing short of a violent bloodbath would sate his needs.

Casting thoughts of discovery aside, Isca kicked at the wooden door of the first cottage he came to, the door instantly succumbing to vampiric anger and flying loose from its hinges to crash onto the floor inside. The fledge strode across the threshold, his gaze darting from left to right as the inhabitants came rushing to investigate. A red rage, the like of which the vampire could not possibly have conceived before this night, surged over him at the sight of these pitiful mortals in their nightclothes, frozen like fieldmice beneath a circling hawk at the sight of him. And quite a sight he was too, with his blue-tinged face drawn into a look of anger and disdain, his posture hunched and tensed from the muscular spasms that assailed him, lending him a macabre aura that struck his terrified prey to the core.

As his last shred of human control snapped, the demon inside revealed itself in a flurry of slashing claws and rending fangs, one last lucid thought surfacing before the Thirst dragged him down for good: maybe this was actually what Raziel had intended all along – to bring out the killer in him. 

At long last, Isca returned to his senses and glanced about him. It looked as though some madcap artist had come in and painted the walls in gristly red, with mangled bodies set as installation pieces in a tasteful arrangement about the room. The door was off its hinges, and there was not an item of furniture left intact. Blood oozed down the window panes. Previously, he had not thought himself capable of such destruction, but he now understood that Raziel had enabled him to savour his first taste of true power – and he had to admit, he liked it. He felt liberated; potent; satisfied. 

A glance at the lightening sky caused the fledgling to rise unsteadily to his feet and stagger out into the pre-dawn air: there was no time to lose. He would head for the Melchahim sanctuary and await nightfall there. 

Isca mounted his horse and urged it to the north, one tangent thought bringing an irreverent grin to his face as he rode.

'Nutcracker.'

*

_Fledgling eyes closed again as the morning's ritual torture began.  For the next hour, the sun's toxic rays would devour the flesh of his right leg.  Eternities of agony would ensue as the wound slowly healed itself during the hours of darkness; then, in the morning, the sun would rise, and the ritual would begin again._

_He was beginning to wish his tormentor would cut his leg off._

Author's Note

I realise this part of the story has kind of been told already, but I think showing it from Isca's point of view, as well as elaborating on what was going on in the background, makes it worth telling again. 

If anyone doesn't get the 'Nutcracker' reference, it's in chapter 7 of 'Lost on Nosgoth.'


	7. Pleasurable Memories

_Minor fluff warning for this chapter: You know I don't write anything racy unless it's integral to the storyline:- and this is.  Honest.  Anyway, there's nothing graphic – just thought I'd better put up a warning._

Freya sat alone in Raziel's library, face furrowed in a vexed frown.  The bargaining session had not gone as well as she had hoped, Raziel first proving himself immune to her dubious and abortive attempt at seduction, and then Turel interrupting them when it looked like they might finally have reached a compromise.  She was beginning to wonder if she would ever get her hands on those damned texts.  Freya released a pent-up breath as the door to the study opened again to admit Raziel's fledge, Isca, who regarded her with an almost hostile, appraising stare.  She raised her eyebrows in a patent query as to what he wanted.

"My lord has instructed me to . . . accompany you."

Freya smiled inwardly.  The fledgling's attempt at converting his master's instruction to 'keep her out of trouble' were clumsy, but admirable.  She threw him a smile as she rose to her feet, causing the fledge's eyes to widen.  She had definitely been a bit too eager with the knife on her neckline.

"So," she said brightly, "show me around."

Once they had got past the initial issue of her waning loyalty to the Sarafan, it soon emerged that the young man harboured a deep-seated resentment towards the vampire-hating knights.  Feeling particularly vindictive towards Antaris at that moment in time, and aware that she wanted to win the fledgling's trust, Freya began to regale her companion with tales of the Sarafan Lord's cowardice.  In the end, she had a feeling it was her description of Antaris' loss of bladder control at Raziel's threats that finally thawed the young fledge's attitude towards her, and the pair were soon chatting away like old friends, immersed in a conversation that ranged from combat strategies to apple scrumping.  By the time they returned from their tour of the fortress, the rest of the fledglings had begun to gather in one of the main halls, and were busy talking through the events of the day.  The rows of tables fell silent as Isca brought his guest to sit with them, but curiosity soon overcame mistrust, prompting a lively discussion on the Sarafan P'ramma's presence in the Fledgling Mess Hall.

Freya noted with some surprise that the foaming tankards that were being passed around were not, as she had first supposed, filled with blood.  She queried her guide on this practise.

"Many of our human tastes continue to hold sway in the first years of unlife.  When we get older – like Poul there," the impudent Vampire pointed out a sour-faced fledge who could not possibly be more than a few years older than himself.  The youth scowled in response, and Isca continued undeterred: ". . .We will crave only blood.  But for now at least, our drinking tastes vary - especially when we've already fed."

Reaching across the table when Poul's back was turned, Isca snagged the older youth's tankard and set it on the table before Freya.

Poul, belatedly noting his missing beer, glared at the P'ramma.  

"If you think I'm sharing my ale with Sarafan scum . . ."

Freya glared back at him over the top of the tankard.  

"Those bastards can no longer claim any allegiance from me."  She interrupted his cutting response by turning to another fledge at the table and asking him to elaborate on fledgling drinking habits.

"I don't see why you'd find it so astonishing that we drink beer," He commented.

"Just surprised that vampires can stomach the stuff."

"That's rich, coming from a_ woman."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Everyone knows women can't take their ale."  Several of his friends supported him on this.

Freya recognised from the youth's expression that he was intentionally goading her, and she rose to the challenge: she liked to think she'd developed quite a tolerance in the last few years.  Before long, the quaffing competition degenerated into true merrymaking, as apparently it did most nights, vampiric constitutions precluding the possibility of hangovers. 

"I think it's starting to get to her," commented the fledgling who had instigated the drunken revelry.  Freya was playing a game of cards with a blond-haired youth at the end of the table, and had recently started to cheat - badly and blatantly.

"She hasn't fallen over yet," observed Isca.

"She's sitting down," his fellow pointed out.

"I would have expected her to drink like a man - she certainly fights like one." sneered Poul, adding a comment under his breath which included a word that sounded suspiciously like 'butch'.

Freya tried to decide whether or not to be offended, finally opting for neither extreme. "That's not true - I just use – different methods." She opined, swirling the contents of the tankard as she reconsidered her card strategy.

"What do you mean, 'different'?" asked Isca, his curiosity piqued.

"Well," she replied, focusing her thoughts with difficulty, "They're just fighting styles you're not familiar with . . .here . . ."

"Show us."

Freya made an explosive noise with her lips.  "Don't be daft – I'm not giving away my secrets." She eyed him shrewdly.  "Can't have you lot _winning_, can I?"

Isca shot her a sharp glance.  "So you **do** plan to return to the Sarafan?"

Freya gave him a sarcastic stare.  "They tried to kill me, stupid."

Isca snorted.  "Less often than we have, surely?"

The woman made a show of counting on her fingers, then gave up and took another swig of ale.  

"Wouldn't bet on it."

"So, show us."

Freya put down her tankard.  "Alrighty then."

She began by showing them a couple of simple throws, and the general technique for roundhouse and side kicks.  Five minutes later, she was seated at the side of the hall with her head in her hands wondering what Raziel was going to do to her when he found out she had instigated this bedlam.  The fledglings were essentially excitable young men with an excess of power.  Imagine, if you will, a boisterous group of young army recruits on a night's leave, then multiply it with the destructive power of a vampire, and spice it with the loss of judgement provided by distilled grain.

The tables were matchwood.

Eventually Gurt detached himself from the shadows at the side of the hall where he had been watching for some time, silencing the tumult with a single phrase.  

"What in Kain's name are you doing?"

The fledges had frozen in comical positions with the arrival of the feared Fledge Master, some of them mid-punch (they had long since forgotten they were supposed to be practising throws), and were now slowly regaining their feet, dusting themselves off and trying to look innocent.

Freya decided, in her inebriated state, that it was better to own up before one of the fledges dropped her in it.

"S'my fault." She grinned apologetically.

Gurt fixed her with an annoyed glare.  "I rather doubt that, _human."_

"No, no, seriously," insisted Freya, in what was quickly degenerating into a 'you're-my-best-mate-you-are' tone, "I was just trying to teach them some moves."

"Were you, now?" asked the austere Master, eyeing the splintered benches in consideration.  Freya nodded vigorously, making the room spin.

"Well then, in that case, I think we can overlook this."  Freya was not the only one to glance at Gurt in complete surprise: the Fledglings' Mess Hall was . . . a mess.  Freya raised an eyebrow.

The Fledge Master turned to leave, aiming his parting comment in her direction.  "I think it's only fair, seeing as you just volunteered to carry on training them tomorrow."

Freya goggled at his departing form as she wobbled unsteadily from side to side.  

"Bugger."

She glanced about to see that Raziel's dratted fledge was guffawing heartily at her.  If she didn't know better she would say he had planned this.

"And you can stop laughing too," she admonished, oscillating slightly as she walked from the hall.

"Where are you going?" asked the puzzled vampire.

"Bed."

"It's this way."

"I knew that."

She poked her tongue out at the vampire's supercilious smile, but nonetheless accepted the support of his arm as he guided her in the proper direction.

"Thanks." She muttered grudgingly.

"Don't mention it."

"Oi, I'm up here!"

Isca's gaze flicked back to her face.   He grinned and shrugged, offering no apology for his lack of manners.

Freya clucked her tongue.  "Anyone would think you'd never seen any before," she grumbled.

Isca stopped before her room and gave a mock-bow, waving an arm towards the entrance as though it were a palatial abode.  She returned it with a mock-curtsey, which almost unbalanced her, and she tripped giggling into the room, slamming the door behind her.

The fledge shook his head, a bemused smile on his face.  He was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that this woman, who was, by the look of her, somewhere close to his own true age, was the leader of the enemy forces.  Ex-leader, he amended mentally.  Isca hovered outside the door, vacillating as his Fledgling urges threatened to take control.  Although he knew that the P'ramma had something akin to diplomatic immunity for the moment, and that none of the Clan would violate Raziel's edict, his feet nonetheless were stubbornly refusing to take him away from the door.  A steady splattering sound drew his attention to the fact that his nails were digging into his palm, allowing droplets of dark blood to stain the floor.  For some reason he had yet to fathom, he was suffering from a deep-seated need, an almost tortuous yearning which had nothing to do with the Thirst for once: it was an ailment for which he knew there was but one cure.  

The fledge turned tail and headed straight for Quadros.  He had a promise to keep.

Isca's highly-attuned senses told him he was not the only vampire in the town that night, several of the Elite having descended to extract their blood tithe.  A glance through a nearby lighted window showed the unexpected picture of his own captain reclining on a low couch, stripped to the waist and stroking the hair of the young woman nestled against him.  Eyebrows almost on his hairline, Isca sought the tavern, a quick jump bringing him to a ledge outside an upstairs window.  After taking a moment to ascertain the identity of the sleeper within, he entered and moved to stand at the end of the bed.  She looked much as he remembered her: golden locks splayed around her head as though she were underwater, the bloom of health and youth on either fair cheek.  His next step forward made a floorboard creak, and, to the girl's credit, she was on her feet brandishing a brass candlestick before Isca could react.

"Who's there?" demanded Maeve in a decidedly shaky voice.  "I warn you," she added, waggling the candlestick threateningly, "I'm armed!"

Isca's face broke into a grin.  "Hello, Maeve."

The girl froze as she matched the voice with its owner.  "Isca?"

A quick scuffle from the table as flint and tinder met, and wan candlelight illumed the room. Maeve turned with a smile that melted into unadulterated admiration as she saw the changes that had been wrought on her childhood sweetheart.  His standard fledge uniform, consisting of a high-collared, long-sleeved jacket and close fitting trousers, both in a heavy black twill, lent him an air of youthful authority.  The jacket itself was emblazoned with the Razielim Clan symbol on either breast, and instantly captured the young woman's attention.  Her gaze eventually wandered back up to see that he had allowed his hair to grow long, and he had, in accordance with his rank's dress code, secured it back from his face with a series of metal bands. Maeve made a little circular motion with her index finger and Isca obliged with a slow twirl.  It seemed to the woman as she appraised her friend that he had a more potent aura now: his shoulders seemed broader, his stature more imposing – or maybe it was a combination of the uniform and the poor illumination.  In any event, the faint glow from the candles was certainly deceptive – the deathly pallor was hardly noticeable in this light. 

"I take it you passed the Trials, then." Maeve's voice held a hint of sarcasm .  It had been a good five years since she had heard anything of his fate, and she was not a little miffed at his lack of consideration.

Isca's smile dissolved.  "Come here."

Not wanting to refuse a request from one of the town's protectors, Maeve obeyed, a shy smile lighting her face as she was drawn again into her former beau's embrace.

The fledge's eyes roved over the young human's face, gauging her willingness before inclining his head and pressing his lips to hers.  The initial contact caught Isca unawares: it was like kissing a furnace - the heat from the young woman's skin seared his cold flesh like a brand.  Although the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, Isca was glad when her lips warmed his, bringing their temperatures closer together. Shortly, he brought up a hand and slid her nightgown from her shoulder, his lips then following the path his hand traced across her bare flesh.  The chill of his touch sent gooseflesh in a thrill across the girl's upper body, and he quickly bared the other shoulder in a like manner.  Bereft of its supports, the nightgown succumbed to gravity, as did Maeve, who reclined on her mattress, inviting the fledgling's next advance.  Quickly divesting himself of his uniform, Isca joined her on the bed, the press of his icy flesh against hers causing a prolonged shiver.  The fledge considerately dragged the covers over them.  Shortly, he felt her gasp beneath his lips as he consummated their reunion, and by and by, his hungry mouth was drawn inexorably away from hers to travel down by degrees with each thudding heartbeat to stop instinctively at the optimum point.

Maeve moaned, louder this time without his lips to stifle her outcries, and Isca clamped a hand over her mouth, his ears alert.  Despite five years of undeath, and killing and maiming, he still held a healthy fear of Maeve's grandmother, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught defiling her precious granddaughter in a room he knew full well was less that ten feet from hers. The old woman was far too good a shot with her shoes, as he had learned on several occasions, much to his backside's chagrin.  Seconds ticked away and the tavern remained silent, and so Isca turned his attention back to the young woman's tensed frame, breathlessly prepared for the pain that would surely come.  Maeve jolted in instinctive shock as the fledge dropped a cool, gentle kiss on the side of her throat.  A moment later his lips opened against her skin, and he pressed his canines gently against her neck: he then allowed the pressure to increase momentarily before altering the angle of penetration so that the razor-sharp tips pierced the flesh.  Blood gushed into his waiting mouth like a hotspring freed from the earth.  Isca's senses reeled from he power of the act: of course he had fed before – hundreds of times over the last few years - but never like this.  The pleasures that coursed through his being were manifold: the physical and the emotional combined with a previously unknown and unforeseen feeling of power that threatened to drown him in its intensity.  This new sensation stemmed from his knowledge that the woman too was deriving enjoyment from his actions, and this, coupled with the supreme and ever-present excitement of the feed, was rapidly taking him to hitherto unknown heights of pleasure.

Maeve's fingernails clawed at his back in a reciprocal gesture for the ache he was causing in her throat, but he remained oblivious to the minor pains, captivated as he was by the exquisite taste of her.  It is true that emotions taint the blood: just as fear spices the vitae with the tang of adrenaline, so too do the chemicals that accompany sexual excitement.  As the act reached a crescendo, Isca heard a voice cry out as his being was engulfed in heady waves of bliss.  Even as the sensations subsided, he was unsure as to who had made the sound: all he knew was the siren song of the blood pounding in his ears, and the intense convulsions of the woman beneath him.

Presently, he drew his head away from Maeve's neck to look at her face, and he was rewarded with the young woman's sleepy, blissful smile.  Her slender fingers curled in his dark locks, which had come loose from their bindings with the energetic movements of their tryst.  Lowering his head to her throat once again, he drew a cold tongue in delicate whorls around the twin puncture marks, removing the last of the spillage.  Maeve shuddered again, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips.  Seeing that the girl could barely keep her eyes open, Isca kissed her paling lips once more before rising from the bed.  Maeve smiled as she drifted into sleep: he would be back.

*

_"His mind is wandering again."_

_"Well, bring him back!"_

_A handful of filthy water hit Isca full in the face, instantly rousing him from his pleasant daydream.  He let loose a scream of agony as the liquid burned red-black runnels across his skin, the water cauterising even as it scalded him. His eyes focussed unwillingly on the dark, mangled apparatus that constituted Turel's torture chamber, and then on Turel himself, who had  placed himself directly in the fledgling's line of sight._

_"Don't you **dare ignore me, fledge." **_

_He fingered his next instrument of pain lovingly.  "We have much to talk about, you and I."_


	8. Torment

Isca returned to the fortress in the hours before dawn feeling eminently satisfied. He even went so far as to hum an old tune whose words, if he remembered them correctly, told the story of a bold knight returning from conquest abroad to find his childhood sweetheart still holding a torch for him.  He thought the song to be quite apt, given the circumstances.  A smile that was obstinately refusing to fade made his vampiric features seem almost cheerful as he walked, one hand absently swinging his belt-knife around on its leather thong.   As he drew level with the room that was currently serving as the P'ramma's quarters, a thundering crash sounded from the upstairs chamber where he knew his Lord was meeting with his brother.  A concerned frown furrowing his brow, Isca rushed to investigate.  He dashed up the wide stone stairs three at a time, barging open the door to his master's audience chamber with little thought for the consequences.  The sight that met his eyes left him statue-still at the entrance, his face locked in a rigor of unadulterated surprise.

Raziel had grown wings.

_"Yes, fledge, your master has metamorphosed. . ."_

Conflicting emotions vied with one another as Isca's brain strove to assimilate the information his eyes were witnessing: pride at the thought of his Lord having attained his next stage of evolution met head-to-head with the concern that there had been no warning, no stage of pupation; these ideas were soon superseded by a profound sense of envy, then a tenuous feeling of unease.  Not even Lord Kain had wings.  He would probably have continued to stare at Raziel in mute amazement for a good while longer, had it not been for Turel's terse interruption.

_"Go.  Tell your compatriots!"_

_The fledge__ began to twitch uncomfortably, his claws clenching and releasing as the final, pivotal event drew ever closer.  _

_Again.___

Dawn found Isca still aiding his comrades in the righting and restoration of the furniture in the Mess Hall.  The air was filled with lively hammering and sawing sounds that would have been more at home in a carpenter's workshop than in the gloomy confines of a Vampire stronghold.  It was onto this scene of industry that Raziel strode, finally confident enough to face his troops now that his balance had adjusted so he walked once again in a manner befitting a Vampire Lord. His early attempts at locomotion had reminded him of the gait of a particular species of wildfowl, and he had made certain that he overcame that potentially embarrassing affliction before descending into the presence of his men.  As his altered shadow breached the threshold of the hall, the noises issuing from the industrious fledglings faded to awed silence while the Clan ceased work to bear witness to their leader's new Gift. 

The hush was broken by several metallic clunking sounds as the fledglings dropped their tools to surge forward and crowd about their Lord, who, for once, appeared unconcerned at the dereliction of their duties.  He smiled in a rather bemused, but pleased manner before addressing a few of the older fledges who held nominal stewardships.  His gaze took in Isca along with these others, causing the youth to straighten proudly.

"I am leaving shortly for the Sanctuary of the Clans. Be sure that this room is returned to normal by the time I return."

There was a murmur of assent from the fledglings he had addressed, partially drowned out by the low babble of awed conjecture and outright admiration that emanated from the excited crowd.

The Clan leader nodded once, trying and failing to hide his pride at his fledglings' reactions before turning to leave.  As Isca watched the Lieutenant's majestic stride carry him from the room, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Raziel represented the pinnacle of his boyish aspirations.

_"Strutting peacock."___

All too soon, the fledge found himself diving from the rocky ledge that marked the entrance to his Lord's Clanlands, hell-bent on reaching the scene of travesty that was unravelling on the precipice above the Abyss.  He was never completely sure why he had locked an arm about the P'ramma's waist before he jumped: he supposed that in some sense he had considered any help better than none at all.  The attempt was meaningless: as the pair rose in harmony to try to avert the fast-approaching tragedy, Isca became aware of Rahab's looming presence, and of the formidable form of the Master Vampire as the damning words left his mouth.

_Again.___

Rahab's fist hit like a piledriver, the solidity of the punch only slightly less unyielding than that of the jagged rock into which the fledgling crashed a moment later.  Although unconscious, for some incomprehensible reason, Isca found he could still perceive the tragedy in livid detail as it unfolded: Raziel struggling impotently against his brothers; the dark red of lifeblood that contrasted obscenely with the pale dun of the wing vanes; Turel's flapping cloak, greener than dewy sward on a spring day; the look of satisfaction on the second Lieutenant's face.  

_How he would love to scratch it off._

_"Such a shame."___

_Isca's__ eyes, lost in far-away events, focussed reluctantly on the dark shape hovering above him.  _

_" .__ . .shame . . .?"_

_"Had your feet been swifter . . ."_

_The fledge__ turned his head and closed his eyes tightly, as though in an effort to shut out the possibilities the suggestion conveyed._

_"Had you anticipated Rahab's move . . ." _

_Isca's__ claws dug repeatedly at the wooden surface on which he lay in a display of regret and frustration, his restraints allowing little room to add impetus to the movement._

_"Had you spoken to your master about your misgivings . . ."_

_The Razielim tilted his head back and gave voice to a low moan of anguish, a single, bloody tear winding its way across one sunken cheek as his tormentor added the insinuation he knew only too well would follow._

_"Raziel might still be alive."_

_A tsunami of guilt crashed over the tormented fledgling, its potency threatening to send him tumbling back into the black gulf that had held him in its blissfully empty embrace for most of the day._

_"No, no, little fledgling," a metallic scraping sound that Isca recognised all too well set his nerves on edge. _

_"Stay with me.  I crave your company."_

_*_

Turel's maniacal laugh assaulted the fledge's raw senses – as did the beam of light that shot through the opened shutter in the roof, its focussed beam eating into the dead flesh of his chest a few inches below his collar-bone.  Isca writhed beneath the searing caress, biting down on the scream his throat needed to vent: although experience had taught him that evidence of the victim's continued self-control only inspired darker treatment from the twisted Lieutenant, he refused to allow Turel the satisfaction of knowing he had driven him to voice an outcry.

Turel raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself at the fledgling's presence of mind.  A tug on the ingeniously-arranged chain in his hand altered the angle of the sun's ray, bringing its focus lower to more sensitive flesh.  He observed as the fledgling's emaciated form began to shudder from the strain, the burning beam causing the skin to smoke as it wormed its insidious way through epidermis, muscle and flesh, only snapping the shutter closed when he was certain the ray had hit bone.  

The insolent wretch secured to the wooden rack had suffered much over the last couple of months, mused the Lieutenant.  He had administered almost every traditional method of torture he knew in an effort to get the fledge to renounce his late master; nothing had worked.   The inventive vampire had tortured the boy with both water and sunlight in copious amounts and in ingenious manners, before resorting to his old favourites: the caged rodent, goaded by the application of hot coals to burrow its way to freedom through the captive's chest; the breaking of the victim's limbs on the Wheel; the insertion of various pointed metal objects into the skin, which, when vampiric flesh quickly healed over, caused excruciating pain whenever the youth moved.  

Turel had, since his earliest days, found the torture of his own kind more satisfying than the meagre and short-lived pleasure to be derived from punishing humans.  In the abuse of undead flesh, one could inflict a great number of individual torments – in place of just one, which would mean the end of the average mortal.  Vampires were far more resilient, and usually recovered within a matter of days from whichever brutal ordeal they suffered at his hands: there were, therefore, endless and diverse possibilities to be explored.

Despite this fact, and much to Turel's disgust, the Razielim was stubbornly refusing to accede to his demands: he imagined by now it was probably a matter of principle with the boy – if he had withstood this much, he was unlikely to crack under any persuasion.  He did, however, have another long-term method up his sleeve.  The fledgling had not fed in over a month now, and his body had long ago begun to turn on itself – as had his mind. The Thirst, in its more virulent forms, constituted a marvellous tool for any tormentor of Vampires.  Today, this was Turel's preferred means of persecution.  He had sliced deep into his own arm before allowing the liquid to splatter wastefully on the fledgling's chest and stomach.  The starving vampire had undergone a series of contortions - which were of great amusement to the callous Lieutenant – in his desperation to reach the potent feast that lay in plain sight, but infuriatingly beyond his reach.  Eventually, he relapsed into a state of impotent unrest, his wasted muscles straining at the metal bands that separated him from his salvation.  

Isca closed his eyes as he realised that Turel's actions represented a hideous parody of the method his own mentor had used to awaken the killer in him.  In the next instant, his eyelids jerked back open against his will in a mechanical response to the maddening scent of fresh-spilled blood, as his tormentor waved his bleeding arm before his face.  Isca's stomach gave a betraying growl, and his blue-tinged skin crawled visibly from the influence of Turel's temptation. 

His captor sighed heavily.  "Renounce him, fledge, and spare yourself the pain."

Abruptly, Isca laughed.  It was a pale shadow of the hearty, deep-chested bellow for which he was renowned, but still it was enough to incense Turel, finally convincing the Lieutenant to enlighten his captive on a fact that he had kept hidden up until now.  His voice became soothing, almost deferential: the voice of an indulgent parent who must tell his offspring to put away the trappings of childhood.

"Your Clan is failing, boy - fractioning - why hold on to an ideal whose basis no longer exists?  In a very short time, this world will see a new order, and your brethren will be absorbed by the remaining Clans." 

The fledgling forced a hoarse reply from between withered lips.  "You already tried that, Turel.  The day the Razielim pay homage to you . . ."

The Lieutenant interrupted with a brusque comment.  "I fail to see why you insist on remaining faithful to people who abandoned and betrayed you."

"They have not abandoned me."

Turel glanced pointedly about the chamber, a glib smile revealing the tips of razor-sharp fangs.  

"I see no rescue party."

"They don't even know I'm here," came the stolid reply.

The tormentor laughed and nodded knowingly, his self-satisfied leer implying that Isca was mistaken.

"You're lying." Commented the fledge, wearily.  This latest was a feeble untruth at best – the Vampire Lieutenant was normally more inventive in his perjury.

Turel leaned in close to the youth, his narrow features alight with the pleasure of his hidden secret.  He was practically beside himself as he delivered his _coup de grace_.

"Who do you think led my men to you?"

The refutation died on the Razielim's lips as the truth in Turel's words was borne out.  The Vampire Lord radiated honesty.  For once.

"I will leave you to contemplate this-" he glanced at the door where a messenger stood awaiting his attention.  He nodded curtly at the emissary, then glanced back at the restrained fledgling, whose blood-starved body was starting to convulse with its proximity to such a ready source of the life-giving substance it so craved.

"I doubt you have much time left, boy.  Maybe you should use it to reconsider your future."

Turel perversely dropped a dark globule of cool, thick blood on the fledgling's cheek, just out of reach of the vampire's desperately searching tongue, before turning and striding from the room with a spring in his step.

Isca closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.   

The fledgling was not alone in the dungeon. He had known this from the earliest times - the daylight hours were filled with the low groans of Turel's other victims.  Often, at evenfall, the Lieutenant would descend into his dungeon and take his pick of victims to torment that particular night.  The young vampire knew that several of his fellow inmates were female, and was glad that his position on the wooden board, which served both as bed and rack, did not allow him to witness the horrendous acts his ears informed him were being carried out by the sadistic Lord.  Daylight ever saw those who survived praying aloud to their Gods for release, salvation or death.  Isca doubted their prayers would be heard from these depraved depths.  The presence of females in the room disturbed him for other reasons: it continually reminded him of his night with Maeve.  Though these thoughts were often pleasant, Isca was aware that under the pressure of Turel's manipulations, he was wont to ramble about the events of his life.  Turel encouraged this, doubtless in an effort to discover some secret that might give him leverage over the boy.  In his lucid moments, Isca was terrified that sometime, during the course of his mindless digressions, he might inadvertently mention the girl, and give Turel the incentive he sought.  

As nightfall wrapped the echoing dungeon in its starlit cloak, Isca joined his fellow captives in a fervent prayer for death.

Author's Note.

Aww.  Don't you just want to go rescue him?  I do. *starts plotting an alternate universe self- insert fic where Isca gets rescued by – *  Oh.  Hold on.  We could send in the Black Leather Wearing Women from Earth! *crumples up previous plan and starts on a new one*

Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up – I got sidetracked. *looks shiftily to the right and left, then points at AmuseMe*  It's all her fault! 

Besides, I had to do some research (purely theory, I hasten to add), on torture methodology.  I have to say, the Spanish Inquisition were pure EVIL!

**Review Response:**

**Shumina****: Thanks very much.  Wow.  You really read between the lines!**

**Vladimir****'s Angel: Thanks for all the reviews – glad you liked, and I'm glad the wibble review got through OK.  You were really mean to poor Raz the other night, though – has he come out from beneath the pizza box yet?  Yeah, I know he was nasty in that chapter, but I've definitely had a change of heart recently: I like my Raziels evil. : [**

**Shadowrayne**: Erm . . . thanks *blushes*  There.  I've added now.  Are you happy?  And how long are we gonna have to wait for Paradox? *starts pacing*

**Silmuen****:  Stop jumping, woman – you're making the screen shake! And I'm afraid I haven't had time to be bored recently – the shipment must have got delayed somewhere . . . hope the exams are going well. ; )**

**AmuseMe****: Thankyou very much.  Yeah, I think I'm starting to get to grips with this whole sadistic vampire thingie . . .  And I think I know what happened to your reviews – all those submitted on the 4th were lost due to 'human error' . . .**


	9. Escape

As the blazing days faded to the cooler shades of night, the Chamber was illumined alternately by filtered gold and muted silver. Neither light flattered the wicked outlines of Turel's cruel playthings. However, as the moonlight gave way to dawn for a third time, bringing with it no visit from either the Vampire Lord or his vassals, Isca began to believe, against his own better judgement, that his torment might at last have ceased. As he pondered this, his sensitive ears soon told him a story to which his other senses were blind: some of the prisoners were dying. Those who still lived were mainly women whose punishment, while horrific, had been less physically exacting than that of their male counterparts. Their continual pleas for release and succour added a poignant backing to the death rattles of the other prisoners. Isca doubted that help would come. On this third day, when the remaining captives were starting to drop like flies from dehydration, Isca became convinced that they had been abandoned by their captors: the ominous silence of the fortress only served to strengthen his suspicions. 

This conviction fired the last spark of determination that, even after all these months, still burned in his gut. With a concentrated effort, he focussed upon his Thirst, forcing down the mental barriers he had erected against its cravings in order to keep himself sane. There was a fleeting moment of utter lucidity when he understood completely the motivation behind the Vampire psyche, before his personality was swallowed, perhaps irredeemably, by the bloodthirsty demon that drove his baser needs. As the beast that dwelt within was allowed free reign, its purposeful thoughts were drawn to the apparatus that held him prisoner: instead of trying to wrench the metal shackles from their moorings, it forced its host's claws through a minute gap in the boards beneath him, wrenching apart the planks with a strength that had far more to do with the mind than the wasted body. Stout oak yielded to the vampire's prising with an almost articulate groan, and, with long minutes punctuated by more reluctant creaks, the prison finally surrendered its victim. Freed at last, Isca dragged himself upright, his feral expression marking him more beast than man - and more completely in the thrall of his vampiric needs than he had been at any time in his unlife. He cast his keen senses about the room before attempting to stand.

As the frail figure rose defiantly from the remains of its prison, the few survivors let out cries of surprise and thankfulness, shortly calling to him to free them as well.

Isca, bowed from the strain of holding his frame erect, raised his head and staggered in the direction of the sounds, trusting his twitching, pointed ears over his glazed eyes. The first woman he came to hung suspended a couple of feet from the ground by twin chains, her once-fine dress in tatters. The vampire registered vaguely that she was repeating the words 'thank goodness' over and over like a litany, and he raised his head, faintly discerning the chains that held her. Reaching upwards with one shaking claw, he raked open her chest with a single downwards stroke, and, unable to remain standing, collapsed to his knees with his face upraised in the hopes of catching as much of the downpour as possible. As the warm, rich liquid began to restore his strength, he clawed back upwards, caring not whether his searching digits found flesh or cloth. At length, and with the woman's arms stretched to their limit between his weight and the restriction of the chains, he finally succeeded in hauling himself to his feet, whereupon he buried his face against the wound he had inflicted, the slowing thud of the woman's heart a comforting note in his ears.

The cries of joy and gratitude faded to a low wail of terror as the other living captives witnessed the fate of the first woman, guessing therefrom the future intentions of the vampire. They began to scream and struggle, the proximity of their long-prayed-for release now seeming an unwanted fate in their survivalist eyes. Their screams only quickened their demise, the yells of denial serving to aid the dazed fledgling in pinpointing their location. Isca found but three more who still lived, and from whom he was able to feed. The first, suspended even as his previous victim, he dealt with in a like manner, this time managing to remain standing throughout the entire event. The second he had to extricate forcefully from a barred cell, as she apparently preferred the option of a slow death from dehydration than an immediate one at the hands of this inhuman creature that had suddenly escaped and run amuck in Turel's dungeon. Isca quickly deprived the woman of her choice.

The final survivor had apparently resigned herself to her fate at his hands; she had, over the past few hours become aware of the influx of a particularly vicious breed of rodent into the chamber. Better the swift mercy of the vampire than the slow, agonising demise she could expect at the pitiless claws of the rats. So it was that when the starving Razielim approached her, doused almost from head to toe in the blood of her fellow prisoners, she met his approach with a steady gaze, the proud tilt of her head indicative of her status in her former life. Isca, lost in the bloody haze of the Thirst, failed to notice these minor facts at first, his brain registering little apart from the fact that one human still lived, and that he was separated from her by stout bars to which no lock could be discerned. He growled in frustration. A few moments later, it was impressed upon his distanced thoughts that the woman was pointing something out to him; on following her advice, he was able to operate the lever that opened the door. Too hungry even to be suspicious, Isca stepped into the dark confines of the cell. Once within, he was surprised again as the woman, smiling sadly, pushed aside her hair and the neckline of her dress in an offer that not even the most clouded vampire brain would have mistaken. Not needing a second invitation, the fledge stumbled forward, his initial aim falling short as his feet caught against the flagstones. The bite that would have landed squarely on her neck instead found its mark some inches below her collarbone, while the momentum of the vampire's stumbling gait sent them both back onto the uncomfortable iron bench that was the cell's only furnishing. Isca continued heedlessly, and when his weakness would have sent his head lolling from her chest, the woman clutched gently at him, holding him to her breast in an almost motherly embrace, until her own hand slipped lifeless into empty air.

Isca let the body slip to the ground, breathing deep the scent of approaching freedom: and perhaps retribution. Although the meagre supplies of blood furnished by Turel's erstwhile victims had but barely taken the edge off his Thirst, it did, however go some way towards restoring his presence of mind. It also gave him the strength to wrench open the door to the dungeon, a burning brand clutched in one shaking hand in the vain hope that it would help fend off any Turelim who crossed his path. 

He need not have concerned himself: the fortress was long deserted.

*

It was a gaunt, haggard figure that staggered across the border towards the Razielim fortress several hours later, one skeletal claw grabbing onto the ornate iron gate to keep from falling. This particular hour found the fledglings in their training grounds, a fact which probably saved Isca's life: for when several of the bored youngsters caught sight of the reeling figure, and recognised him for one of their own, they promptly rushed to his aid.

Gurt, who was overseeing the evening's session, strode ahead of the pack and sent one of the fledges to tell their Captain to hasten to the scene.

"Isca!" Gurt caught the boy before he could hit the ground, instantly yelling an order to some gawping young men as he perceived his charge's condition.

"You there! Fetch one of those Sarafan up from the dungeons – and make sure you pick a nice fat one." He settled the youth on the floor, resting his back against the wall for support before taking a long, appraising look at his condition. He shook his head and called out to the fledglings before they could leave the courtyard. 

"Better make it two." 

Isca's former Captain skidded to a halt at Gurt's side, his eyes wide in surprise and dismay.

"What in Kain's name happened to you?"

"Turel . . ." managed the fledge, leaving his Captain wondering how the vampire had managed to speak at all. The youth's once-robust form was emaciated, the skin sunken against wasted muscle, and coloured a greyish-blue from months of starvation.

"The questions can wait," advised the Fledge Master. The Captain nodded agreement, swiftly turning to relieve the newly-arrived fledges of their human burdens. Between them, Gurt and the Captain aided the weakened vampire in consuming the nourishment they had brought for him, the fresh blood restoring some of the colour and a little of the smoothness of his skin. Only when the second knight was drained, and the youth professed satiety - much to the disbelief of his companions - did Gurt allow the Captain to proceed with his questions.

"Now, fledgling, tell me all."

"There's not much to tell. I've been in Turel's torture chamber for . . ." he looked at his superiors in query.

"Four months," offered Gurt.

"Four months . . .?" came the shocked echo.

The Captain shook his head at the fledge's apparent foolishness.

"What on earth convinced you to go wandering across the border when the Turelim were so unkindly disposed towards us?"

Isca simply shook his head, vaguely remembering the thirst for vengeance that had settled like a dark miasma over his every thought. He had been driven, he recalled that much: he very much doubted the single-minded Captain would understand this nebulous sentiment. 

"Did you . . .'tell' . . . them anything?" 

Isca frowned at the Captain's delicate phrasing. His indignation at the officer's implication faded into smug satisfaction as he realised at last that Turel had tried – and failed – to break him.

"Not a thing," he grinned. The officer returned the smile, sensing the honesty in the fledge's statement. The Captain's next comment drove all thoughts of exacting revenge on Turel from his mind.

"When Poul told us he'd seen you heading for the border, we feared the worst."

Isca's head snapped up to look his Captain straight in the eye.

"_Poul?_" 

Turel's intimation that he had been betrayed by one of his own Clan came thundering back to him, along with the knowledge that the fledgling in question could not possibly have seen him that particular night.

The Captain nodded.

"Then I should … go thank him."

Gurt chuckled gruffly. "When you can stand on your own two feet again, fledge – you're naught but skin and bones yet."

Isca proved the Fledge Master wrong by rising determinedly – if a little unsteadily – to his feet and heading slowly towards the fledgling barracks.

"Wait – you won't find him there." Isca stopped and looked askance at the Captain. "He is a sergeant now – he has moved to quarters that befit his rank."

Isca vented a tense breath and nodded sharply, correcting his course.

As Isca departed, Gurt and the Captain exchanged quiet comments on the fledgling's resilience, both parties impressed by the aura of strength and control he exuded, despite his malnourished appearance. As to what other changes had been wrought in the boy – only time would tell.


	10. Revenge

Isca found Poul in opulent – if tastelessly decorated - quarters, entertaining a female fledge who had doubtless been seduced by his recent promotion - Isca could think of nothing else that would have attracted the woman to the po-faced vampire. After entering uninvited to the sergeant's chambers, he stood silently waiting for the man to notice him, his face half-hidden in shadow.

" . . . which left me with no option but to dispatch the mercenaries myself," came a light-hearted boast from the couch at the far end of the room. It was rewarded with a feminine giggle of appreciation, and then silence reigned for a few embarrassing moments. 

Isca cleared his throat.

As Poul's annoyed glance informed him of the identity of his new visitor, he leaped to his feet, his face drawn into a mask of alarm and disbelief. 

"Isca . . .!"

"Hello, Poul," 

The female fledge looked from one male to the other, sensing the excess of tension in the air.

"Leave us," growled Isca. The fledge was only too glad to obey. Her intuition told her of the confrontation that was coming, and she knew full well how difficult it was to get blood out of silk.

Poul swallowed visibly before smoothing back his hair, the casual action helping him regain his composure somewhat. After all, the fledge could not possibly have any knowledge of his actions.

"We thought you were dead." He commented evenly, strolling across to a table where he had left a decanter and a pair of goblets. He poured himself a generous measure and drank deeply, pointedly excluding the fledgling from the treat.

"So it seems," replied Isca, closing the door behind the departing woman, who eyed the unhealthy fledge with distaste and not a little fear. Isca ignored her, focussing the full intensity of his gaze on Poul's tense features.

"The Captain tells me you saw me the night the Turelim took me prisoner."

The sergeant nodded faintly, ever keeping the fledgling in plain view as he began to circle around the table towards him.

"Tell me, Poul – I am having difficulty understanding how could you have seen me heading for the border that night."

"I did see you – I was just too far away to reach you in time . . ."

"That is not what I asked – I asked how you could have seen me," Isca dodged quickly around the obstacle, advancing on the flustered sergeant with murderous intent, " -when you were lying abed recovering from the axe wound I gave you in training!"

Poul, in a blue funk by now at the tangible air of menace that surrounded the irate vampire, began backing towards the cache of weapons at the rear of the room. Its location was marked by the protrusion of a large and rather ostentatiously decorated lance, which Isca guessed was a trophy of the Tournament wherein Poul had gained his promotion. He followed the path of Poul's retreat, his hollow, sunken features giving him the appearance of a merciless corpse.

"You should leave now, fledge. I have duties to attend to – and you look like you could use some time abed yourself." Poul was starting to look distinctly uncomfortable. 

"Or will I have to pull rank?"

The look of disgust that blazed of a sudden on the fledgling's features was enough to convince Poul that his comment about rank had been a mistake. So, as Isca charged, he was prepared, diving for the sword that lay in the middle of his weapons cache. Drawing the blade from its sheath in a single, practised motion, Poul swung around lashed out at Isca's head. The fledge ducked – only just in time; his once-swift reactions were slowed from his recent ordeal, and Poul, instead of decapitating his opponent, only succeeded in knocking the decanter to the floor. As the sergeant stared in annoyance at the broken crystal, Isca leaped at him, bearing him to the ground under the force of his lunge. Poul struck back, throwing his enemy from him, where he staggered to his feet and collided heavily with the table. The struggle, if such it could be called, was over quickly, the half-starved vampire quickly bested and thrown bodily onto the table by the hale and hearty Poul.

Isca froze as the sergeant's cold blade came to a sudden halt against his throat, sensing that the last seconds of his life were fast approaching. He growled in defeat, his resignation forcing him to ask the question:

"What did Turel give you, Poul, in exchange for my life?"

The sergeant scowled at the accusation, his look of anger quickly replaced by a triumphant sneer: Isca would not leave the room alive, so it mattered not what he told him. With this in mind, he leaned in close so that Isca would not miss a single word of his confession.

"Turel's dominion is coming, Isca. Kain is gone – he has fled these cursed lands, and the Clans beg for a new master. He alone has the necessary power. Those who side with him now will be rewarded when the day of reckoning arrives."

Isca shook his head in disbelief. "I could understand your turning on me, Poul – there has never been any love lost between us: but to betray the Clan itself . . .?" His voice trailed off, lost in the revelation.

"For what Turel has promised me in return: yes! In an instant. I will be foremost among his trusted Elite." He looked lovingly at his own reflection in the polished blade, ostensibly imagining himself in the coveted armour of the upper echelons of the Vampire Guard.

Isca snorted in disgust. "I don't see what you wanted with that woman, Poul – you're obviously completely in love with yourself."

Poul snarled at the insult, then seemed to reconsider, a mean smirk on his sallow face as he leaned in even closer to the doomed fledgling. 

"Maeve was devastated when I told her you were dead."

Isca tensed, a rage the like of which had not assailed him since Raziel's execution bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Poul, rather unwisely, continued:

"I rather think she loved you, you know. She cried when I told her."

The fledge felt a pang of misery as he ran through the scene in his mind. Poul interrupted the vision with a vindictive hiss:

"But I soon brought the smile back to her face."

Isca went berserk. Poul suddenly and inexplicably found his proposed kill bolting up from the table with the speed and wiriness of a whippet. The fledge's skeletal frame belied the strength inherent in his body and mind, and despite his struggles, Poul found himself seized in an uncompromising grasp and lifted momentarily aloft. He had a brief moment of relief when he thought Isca's strength had failed: it passed as he was thrown backward with horrifying speed, straight towards his weapons cache. His flight ended abruptly as the protruding lance point slammed through his chest, the wicked tip forcing itself further and further out from his torso as gravity took its hold. Screaming in pained surprise, he struggled impotently, a prisoner of his own weight as it left him impaled, to all intents and purposes, until the base of the lance should be moved.

"Isca!" gasped the sergeant with difficulty. "Get this out of me!" The fledgling's lowered brow and bestial expression did nothing to assuage Poul's fears. He was disarmed in short order and was soon writhing helplessly in burning pain as his wound attempted to close itself about the ornate obstruction. He could but watch in vain as Isca circled around to stand before him, his face betraying his hatred, as well as a hint of sadism that did not bode well for Poul's last moments.

"Do you know what it's like to be tortured day and night for months on end?"

Poul shook his head emphatically, dark blood beginning to issue from his gaping mouth as he strove to breathe around the obstruction in his chest. 

"Maybe I should show you."

The vampire writhed again, tugging at the lance in his desperation. He did not want to die like this: impaled by the hand of some half-starved fledge, still wet behind the ears. A second glance at his captor convinced him that his appraisal of the youth was wrong. Something new and dangerous resided in the fledgling's eyes; in the proud carriage of his frame, despite its emaciation; in his aura. It was power. Poul had rarely come across such a thing before, let alone in such palpable quantities. It caused him to cringe and cower, shying away from the force of the fledge's hostile glare.

Isca felt incredibly calm. This snivelling wretch, who had failed Raziel during his reign and betrayed his memory after his death was incapacitated and at his mercy. Poul's comments about Maeve had stoked the fires of hatred in him and given him a momentary flare of strength; Isca could now feel the approach of the blinding bloodlust of the Thirst, and although its presence was as potent to him as it had been the first time, Turel's foul treatment of him had conversely imbued him with a powerful sense of self-control. And so, as he approached Poul with the darkest of intentions, his mind was, for once, completely clear. He could sense every iota of agony that wracked the creature's frame, see every droplet of viscous blood that coursed down the shaft of the lance; he could scent Poul's fear in the air: an intoxicating aroma that served to heighten his anticipation of the coming deed. 

Visibly taking his time, Isca stepped closer to the trapped vampire, running one claw down the sticky shaft of the lance before raising it to his lips - in doing so, tempting his own thirst as well as tormenting his victim. Poul's entire frame was wracked with shudders, as much from the incredible pain in his chest as from disgust at the fledgling's actions.

"You recoil? Are my actions towards you so much worse than yours towards me?"

Poul let out an anguished yell as he slipped a few inches further down, the lance penetrating his chest now slick with his lifeblood. He shook his head frantically, willing to say anything now that would save his skin.

Isca considered the pain-wracked face carefully. "Perhaps it would have been better if I had not escaped, Poul: I fear that Turel has erased the last shred of humanity left in me."

Poul attempted to disagree, and only succeeded in coughing up a handful of frothy blood.

The fledgling approached the sergeant, looking deep into the glazing golden eyes. "I fear he has left me soulless."

"N-n . . ."

"A killer."

"Please . . ."

"A tormentor." 

"J-just k-kill me . . ."

The heartless scowl faded in favour of a benign smile. Poul had been easily manipulated.

"As you wish."

With the sergeant's last request in mind, Isca stepped forward and ripped his throat out, his other claw tearing at the hole in Poul's chest, enlarging it as he did so. Having obeyed the dying command of an officer of senior rank, and sated his own need for violence, he began to drink. The young vampire had never fed so deeply in his unlife: nor, for that matter, had he ever feasted upon a fellow member of the ranks of the undead. The significance of the act, the potency of the blood itself, and the knowledge that he was avenged all combined into one single sensation that hit the fledge like a sledgehammer. Isca reeled as Poul's older blood doused his dry veins with liquid power, the delirium of this particular feed ranking only behind his experiences with his sire and with his lover. 

Revenge did indeed taste sweet.

****

**Author's Note.**

Heh. I drew Isca at the weekend. Vaguely pleased with the results. Got into trouble with my boyf for drawing him topless though. He got all jealous. *snigger*

Anyway, more next week - gotta go!

*stuffs Evanescence tickets into one pocket and Type O Negative tickets in the other and pootles off to London, grinning like an idiot*


	11. Ascension

Isca was at a complete loss.  For the last few months, his thoughts had been focused solely on surviving the next excruciating moment of his existence, and more lately on exacting his revenge on Poul.  With this done, his thoughts had quickly returned to Maeve, and Poul's wounding comments about his relationship with her.  As he returned to his barracks in search of less blood-stained clothing, he found himself in two minds as to his course of action.  If what Poul had said was true, and he had indeed become close with the girl, there was always the possibility that the young woman would no longer want his company or attentions.  Worse still - he, Isca, had ended the Sergeant's life in a fit of rage and jealousy – what if Maeve now saw him as the beast who murdered her lover?  The fledgling quickly chastised himself for such a foolish thought.  There was no certainty that Poul's words had been anything more than bluster, invented to inflict further suffering on his intended victim in the moments before his death.  Besides, even if his boast were true, Poul was gone, and Isca could reclaim her as his own.  With the recent feeds restoring his composure and reasoning, Isca resolved to simply seek out the girl and gain her perspective on the matter.

With his rapidly regenerating body restored to its Fledgling uniform, and the worst of the dried blood brushed from his hair, Isca professed himself ready for the encounter.  Presently, his long stride brought him to the edge of the hill that overlooked the village.  Couched at the foot of the escarpment, it enjoyed an enviable position as the closest tithe village to the Fortress.  Isca took a deep breath as he prepared to look once again on the town that he had called home for almost half of his human days.  That was when he noticed the smoke.  Startled, he strained his acute senses to gain more information on the state of the village. 

Quadros burned.

Pausing only to yell a warning to a fellow fledge closer to the Fortress, he threw himself full-pelt towards the town, striving to keep his mind clear of the horrendous images that were unfolding unwanted before his mind's eye.  He careened to a halt at the town gates, one of which stout wooden barriers had been torn loose from its hinges.  A quick appraisal of the scene told him a poignant story: the town was in ruins.  The attack, which -judging by the strength of the fires- was recent, must have been swift and devastating.  A different atrocity lurked in every direction: women and children had been cut down, burned alive, or impaled.  Blood etched the dull grey cobbles in gaudy red.  Everywhere Isca looked, he saw clear evidence of the identity of the perpetrators of the attack: houses aflame, bodies bristling with barbed arrows, and to top it all off, a lone banner, driven through the chest of a fallen body, standing as an insolent challenge in the centre of the town square.  Isca had seen it before.  The emblem, formed like an open-topped ankh, was the symbol of the hated Sarafan.  With fear overriding his anger for the moment, he headed for the village tavern, fearing the worst. It was an inferno. Several overturned barrels outside explained why  this building burned so much more fiercely than the rest.  Casting about to find a way through the flames, his heart gave a lurch as his gaze fell upon an untidy heap of bodies in the tavern garden.  Tearing his way through the wreckage, his eyes fell at last on a flash of blonde hair beneath the bloodied pile.  As his shaking claws pulled the form to freedom, he knew that for Maeve, it was too late: her skin, so hot that it had burned him when last they met, now lay cold and unresponsive beneath his claws.  The vampire knelt with head bowed and added another crime to his reasons for exacting revenge on the Sarafan.  With lowered brow, he turned his head slowly in the direction of Meridian, his eyes rising as though they could see across the many miles to the impregnable walls of the foul human city.  The hour was at hand.

By now the Razielim had reached the town and had begun the hopeless search for survivors.  Lowering Maeve's body gently to the earth, Isca turned to see that Gurt and Captain Harrin had arrived and were standing together, deep in conversation.  He rose and approached, his mind –despite his grief - already forming a plan for a retributive attack.  As they saw him draw near, they loosed their weapons and challenged him.

"Stay where you are, fledge!"

"Keep your hands where we can see them!"

Isca looked at the pair as though they had both gone mad.  He half-raised his hands in an automatic response to the order from his superiors.

Gurt strode swiftly towards Isca and relieved him of his sword.

"What the. . .?" Isca stared open-mouthed at the incomprehensible actions of his allies.

The Captain moved to stand before him, his expression stern.  

"Poul's body has been found.  His throat was torn out and his blood drained."

Isca's puzzled frown vanished as the situation became clear.

"The wretch got no more than he deserved."

"You admit that it was your doing?"  At Isca's emotionless affirmation, Captain Harrin continued: 

"It was not for you to decide his fate, fledgling.  I appreciate you may have envied him his promotion, but that does not justify . . ." 

"He had allied himself with the Turelim." Isca cut in.

Gurt shot a loaded glance at his fellow officer.  The Captain ignored it.

"I think your time in Turel's prison has addled your brain, boy.  Poul's loyalty was never in question."  

"You weren't there when he confessed," replied Isca in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

The officer chose not to heed Gurt's pointed throat-clearing and continued regardless.  

"I know of the rivalry that existed between the two of you, and I understand that you resented his advancement in the ranks - but your actions are unconscionable."

Isca lost patience. "This has nothing to do with _rank_, Captain - he delivered me into the hands of the enemy, and Turel himself promised Poul a position of power in return for his betraying the Clan."  

The continued denial on Harrin's face riled the fledgling still further, prompting him to add,  "If you can't see the truth, it's your brain that's addled!"

For a moment, the fledgling and the officer faced each other head-on, eyes locked in challenge.  The face-off marked the precursor to an event that could have only one possible outcome – one that did not bode well for Isca.  For a moment, the Captain continued to stare coldly at the fledgling, but eventually even he discerned that which Poul had also seen in the young vampire's eyes: conviction. Solid, unshakeable conviction, backed up by a will as strong as iron.

The Captain lowered his eyes.

"Poul's death is no great loss," murmured Gurt, as though closing the matter.  The Captain bobbed his head in distracted agreement, chewing absently at his thumb-claw.

Isca gave a heavy sigh, putting aside his pride in the face of present dangers.  "The Sarafan grow ever bolder, I see – they bring the fight to our very doorstep."

Gurt, seeing that his superior was lost in thought, stepped forward to answer.  "They took two more of our tithe villages a few months back

Isca was shocked at the news and its implications, glancing angrily at the smoking remains of the town.  "And you did not prepare for this eventuality?  Did you not suspect that they might attack Quadros?"

Gurt shot a surreptitious glance at the brooding Captain, but kept his silence.  Isca's sharp mind quickly arrived at the next logical danger.

"What of the last village?  Do we have a contingent there?"

The officer snapped his head up at the mention of the last tithe village, Isca's domination of the conversation reminding him of his own position of authority.  He straightened and snapped a reply.

"We are too few already.  We cannot risk losing men to the Sarafan when the threat of invasion from the other Clans lies so close at hand."

"For _this_ you allowed our holdings to fall?  Those people depended upon us for their safety.  They _paid us for a service that you failed to deliver." Isca emphasised his accusation by pointing a recently-formed claw at Harrin's chest._

The Captain gave a visible shake, catching himself just short of feeling chastised by the words of a mere fledgling.  

"You speak out of turn_, fledge_.  It is not your place to point out our shortcomings."

"Well, someone should," Isca snapped.  "Or do you care so little for the work our sire started that you would let the fruit of his efforts wither and die at the hands of the enemy?"

By now, the body of Elite guards who had accompanied Gurt to the village had drawn near and were listening intently to the conversation.  Harrin drew himself up to his full height at the inference that he was unfaithful to his Lord's memory.  He slowly and carefully enunciated every word of his reply: 

"I am trying to keep us alive."

"At the cost of our very ethos?  At the cost of everything that makes us what we are? That's not living.  That could barely even be called surviving."  Isca's voice carried easily to the eager ears of his fellows as he continued.  

"The Razielim are the descendents of Kain's own first-born - should they be consigned to the status of mice? Eking an existence, hiding in the shadows?" 

Gurt nodded, a grim smile serving as evidence of his approval. The fledgling was not yet aware of the audience that had gathered around him and which was, by now, hanging on his every word. He guessed that Harrin would have a hard time refuting these arguments.  He himself had been one of a faction opposed to allowing the tithe villages to suffer for the vampires' survival, and time and again he had cursed himself for not putting up more resistance to his superior officer's ill-advised plans.  He left these thoughts behind as the fledgling's clear tones cut across the silence once again.

"Would you have us bury our heads in the sand, flee in terror before the Sarafan and neglect our duties as sworn protectors of those beholden to us?"

A low rumble of dissent rose from the steadily growing crowd, finally alerting Isca to their presence and attention.  He disregarded them: he had already made up his mind as to what he planned to do, and he cared little whether he had the cooperation of his fellow vampires or not.

"You do as you will, Captain.  I am going to offer my sword to the villagers who still live, so they will know they have not been completely abandoned by their 'protectors'."

Harrin considered the fledge's words carefully.  One side of him was urging him to take the boy to task, put him in his place and carry on as he had up to now; the other, less willing side told him that Isca was correct: that the Razielim, despite their loss, still had a sacred duty to perform, one that had indeed been neglected in favour of his own petty and selfish plans for survival.  The sound of departing footsteps drew his attention to the fact that the fledge had turned to leave. 

"Wait," he called, sighing resignedly.  He glanced about at the circle of men who had surrounded the two during their argument, instinctively guessing their own feelings on the matter.

"You have the right of it, Isca.  We have . . . no, **I have held back thus far."  Isca nodded solemnly, appreciative of the effort it must have cost the prideful Captain to make such an admission.  "But you must understand, all I want is for the Clan to survive."**

"That is also my wish." Isca assured him, taking a few steps towards the officer to stop just in front of him with one claw extended.  

"But not at the price of our identity." 

As Harrin's claw connected with Isca's in a firm handshake, his face broke into a smile tinged with an emotion close to respect. 

"Where you go, I follow."

Isca's jaw dropped.  He had not been expecting such a declaration and took a physical step back, shaking his head.  It had not been his intention to try to wrest control or demand allegiance from the Captain: it seemed almost perverse that a vampire of such rank should offer his support to him - a lowly fledgling.  He almost jumped out of his skin as further offers of commitment began to issue from various points amidst the impressed crowd.  His stricken glance eventually alighted upon Gurt, who was grinning broadly, apparently hugely amused by the unforeseen happenstance.  As the random cries became a steadily rising chant, Isca realised two things: since their leader's demise, the Razielim had been at a loss, directionless and ineffective; and that Turel's 'punishment' had left him stronger for the experience.  There was little to fear in the world that could possibly compare to the torment he had already suffered – and if Turel could not break him, then the Sarafan had even less chance.  His resolve remained unshaken: he would still march against the human knights, and fight to his last breath to uphold the regime that Raziel had forged, while at the same time exacting his long-sought-after revenge for the death of his parents - and now for Maeve.  It seemed, however, that his chances of survival had now increased: the Razielim were with him.

Author's Note

Sorry about the state of this chapter.  I'm knackered.  But happy.  : )  BOING!  Oh, and for anyone I left out of my email the other night, I posted the pic I did of Isca on my 'website' *cough splutter*.  The address is in my bio if anyone wants a peek.

**Review Response: **

**MikotoTribal****: Sooooooo glad you're back again, *bounce bounce hug hug* and congrats on such a fabulous ending to your story.  If anyone hasn't read it, GO CHECK IT OUT, IT ROCKS!  There.  A little barefaced plugging never hurt anyone.**

Glad you're enjoying the story, and I really appreciate your comment about character development – it worked! Hoorah! *does a little victory dance* 

Re your latest comment: Your wish is my command (see above).

**Vladimir****'s Angel: Wanna see your pics now!  Liked the one of Lupa, by the way : )**

**Shadowrayne**: Thanks very much.  *taunts you mightily about how good the Evanescence gig was* : P 

**Sereda****: Thankyou.  I'm quickly swinging towards the opinion that you can never have too much sadism. : )**

**AmuseMe**: Thanks for your lovely comments.  Did you manage to escape the dreaded lusty boyf last night? ; )  And what is it about guys when we're on the computer?  They just can't leave us alone – anyone would think they were jealous of our little hunks of plastic and components.  Then again, maybe it's what lurks inside . . .

**Shady Foxfire:** Thankyou – and let me know which bits are confusing; maybe I should sort them out!

**Silmuen****: Oh God, I've created a monster.**


	12. The Last Tithe Village

Rough-woven wool snagged on an opportunistic bramble, a soft tearing noise accompanying the parting of aged fibres as sharp points attempted to grab the passing traveller.  The figure paused fleetingly to tug its cloak free from nature's thorny grasp before gathering its smaller companions back to its side and continuing along the moon-silvered path.  The mood was one of suppressed excitement and thankfulness, and the group, which numbered some seventy or so, had trouble in keeping the noise level low.  Fortunately, their journey was not overly long, and soon, the massive walls of their destination loomed coal-black against the pale grey of the moonlit sky.  

*

Elsewhere, the words of a dead man rang true.  In the aftermath of the disappearance of the self-styled 'Sarafan Lord' of Meridian during the recent Vampire attack, it had only been a matter of time before an even less noble peer had marched into the breach and seized the opportunity to rise to power.  In the meantime, the name 'Antaris' had been elevated to the status of martyr.  His story was told in tavern and square, and whispered in awe on the lips of gossips and guards alike; he had been a bold knight and a respected leader, whose assumed death during the Turelim's cowardly night-time assault on the Sarafan keep would not go unpunished.  People tended to conveniently 'forget' the fact that his body had never been found, preferring to remember him as a martyr than to consider launching a rescue strike in the hopes of finding him alive.  People also tended to forget that he was an underhand dog who had risen to his title by the murder of his predecessor, and that he had been hated and feared by the soldiers who served under him.  

How quickly sensationalism supplants truth!

The man who had assumed control in Antaris' wake, Kalippa by name, had even less scruples than the cad he replaced.  He had hovered in the wings while the tense drama between Antaris and the P'ramma had unfolded, and, when both had fallen to the same nocturnal Vampire raid, he had been quick to offer his services in their absence.  Meridian had been just as quick to welcome him.  Stridently fervent in his belief in the Sarafan ideals, and handsome to boot, he had quickly won over the minds and hearts of both the male and female populace. Tonight 'Lord' Kalippa was at work in the Council Chamber deep in the heart of the keep, mulling over maps and plans in preparation for his next move.  His trusted General, who had served at his side in the past and had quickly been installed in the hierarchy when Kalippa rose to power, plotted with him, along with a few choice others, all partial to the Sarafan cause.

Kalippa set down his tankard on the polished surface of the table with little consideration for its fine workmanship.  Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he outlined his plans: 

"The town is well defended from the eastern side: that is where they fear they are most vulnerable to attack."

There was a low murmur of assent.

Kalippa tapped a gloved finger on the left-hand side of the map before him.  "We will therefore go in from the western side at dawn.  If any of the leeches do decide to put up a defence, they will be at a disadvantage in the daylight."

His General snorted in derision.  "If the last three villages are anything to go by, we need not concern ourselves with the undead – they have abandoned their charges."

"Indeed," concurred the Lord, straightening from the table and wrenching the cricks from his neck.  "It appears that the heathens have been forsaken by their protectors as well as their Gods."  He turned to address the small group gathered around the table, maniacal devotion blazing in his murky blue eyes.

"Ready the men - the time for cleansing is at hand."

*

Shortly before sunrise, two-score horsemen arrived at the head of the valley in whose basin resided the last tithe village beholden to the Razielim.  The sprawling mass of timber-framed houses and barns lay quiet and still in the misty pre-dawn air, a few somnolent goats the only sign of life at this ungodly hour.  Kalippa tightened a leather-gloved hand on the reins in anticipation, before raising his other into the air and making a forward chopping motion.  The horsemen advanced slowly, the dull thud of the beasts' hooves on the soft loam deadened by the insulating properties of the mist.  Kalippa allowed himself a complacent smile: the raid should be over by sunrise, after all, there was little opposition to be expected from a handful of crippled greybeards and a gaggle of terrified women.   Before too long, Turel's beholden would suffer the same fate – especially since the Turelim Lord and the majority of his followers had been conspicuous by their absence in recent weeks.  

The riders spread out in a fan-shape, the double line acting as a precautionary measure against any potential escapees.  Not that any were expected; the attack would be swift and silent, and the last of this particular Clan's fawning blood-slaves would finally be eradicated.  Holding off until the riders had come to within a few yards of the outermost building, Kalippa paused to savour the moment before giving the order to charge. The horsemen poured into the sleeping village like the incoming tide: unrelenting; impassive; unstoppable.  Three men dismounted and entered into adjacent buildings almost simultaneously.  The first sighted a sleeping form lying abed in a two-roomed cottage; the second came upon a goatherd emerging from his kitchen, crook in hand, while the third entered the Inn, to find that the aging, hunched barkeep, huddled in a shawl, was already up and about and stocking the shelves ready for the day's trade.  In three separate dwellings, swords slid from their sheaths.  A blade hovered vertically above the sleeping figure in the bed; another was raised in anticipation before the sleepy goatherd, and the third swung in an eager circle behind the back of the oblivious bartender.  The blows never landed.  The patterned coverlets were suddenly hurled back to reveal a wild-eyed and decidedly thirsty-looking Razielim, who leaped from the cot to bury keen fangs in the neck of his proposed murderer; the goatherd dropped his crook in favour of a short, curved scimitar that appeared as though by magic in one heavy claw, the blade's glorious sheen morphing from silver to crimson in the space of a second, while the barkeep whirled and threw off its shawl to reveal an invigorated and distinctly robust Isca, who effortlessly vaulted the bar and sauntered towards his attacker, flashing a helpful smile in his direction.

"Looking for a drink, Sir?  What's your poison?"

The human staggered back, his bravado fading as the person he had taken for a wizened old man quickly turned the hunter into prey.

"B-bit early for me . . ." he stammered automatically, as his eyes darted about in search of an exit.

Isca replied with a grin that would have put a demon to shame.  "It's never too early."

He proved his conviction in his belief by seizing the fear-stricken man by the sword-arm and wrenching the limb around behind his back, twisting the wrist to force him to relinquish his hold on his weapon.  With the blade removed from the equation, Isca took hold of the soldier's fringe and wrenched his head back, exposing his throat, which gleamed in the tavern's gloom with a thin sheen of fear.

"Tut tut," chided the vampire.  "Lost your chance." 

The human squirmed at the menacing tone of the creature's voice and made to break free, slamming his free elbow into the vampire's midriff and pushing backwards with his full, and not inconsiderable weight.  He might as well have tried to move a mountain.  Isca shook him forcibly before pulling his bent arm up still further, drawing the first scream of pain from the mortal's throat.

"You should take a leaf out of our book, Sarafan." He confided in a low growl, right in the man's ear.  "We never miss an opportunity to drink." He pulled the trembling head back even further, the groaning of neck-tendons under immense strain filling the unfortunate knight's ears.

"After all, you never know which drink . . ." Isca drew a claw slowly down the man's neck with a sound like tearing silk, and a red line appeared, thickening slowly as the tissues parted.  " . . . will be your last." 

He considered the human's response carefully as he watched the first thick droplets slide down over the vein that throbbed visibly in the side of his throat, to disappear beneath his breastplate.  The man had stiffened with fear in his grasp, ceasing all struggles against what was obviously an unbeatable opponent, and now stood immobile with his eyes locked rigidly on the far wall, awaiting his fate.  Isca shook his head.  There was no fight in these Sarafan; no depth to their beliefs.  This was a hired hand, convinced either by the lure of money or the threat of the lash to do the bidding of the latest ignoble bastard to bear the title of Sarafan Lord.  That was the enemy's weakness: they had no love for their cause, and if Isca had his way, it would be their undoing.  With the Thirst vying insistently for his attention in the presence of free-flowing blood, Isca abandoned his thoughts in favour of a more appropriate time and lowered his head to tear at his victim's throat.

From dwellings across the entire valley, identical scenes began to play out as the Sarafan raiding party, instead of the helpless villagers they had expected to encounter, came face to face with large numbers of angry, newly territorial vampires.  As the sun rose, painting the sky in the lightest shade of red, the screams of the terrified, the dying and the tormented echoed through the waking valley.  The attack, just as the Sarafan planned, had ended in a massacre. 

Isca stood in the shadows of the Inn doorway, just beyond the searching fingers of sunlight that lit the ground before his feet.  Not for the first time, he cursed his natural weakness, but took heart in the knowledge that the sun would not always blight his days.  The sooner that happened, the better, as far as this Razielim was concerned.  A scuffle from his left caught his attention.  Gurt and one of the Elite were dragging a semi-conscious man through the mud by his ankles, their eyes riveted on his.  Isca stood aside to allow them room to manoeuvre the body through the doorway, watching with interest as they propped him in a chair and proceeded to slap him about the face in an effort to revive him.

"Who do we have here?" inquired the fledgling as the human dizzily opened his eyes.

"This week's 'Sarafan Lord'." replied Gurt, gaining an appreciative chuckle from his audience.

Isca moved to stand directly in the man's line of vision, taking in a head that consisted of a mop of overgrown ginger hair, a shaggy beard and several battle scars.  He wore a battered suit of armour that had probably been quite spectacular in its day, but was now in dire need of a rigorous encounter with large amounts of wire wool - or perhaps the scrap-heap.  Isca frowned.

"Is this true?"

The man swallowed hard, chanced a quick glance at the door and nodded a grudging confirmation.

The fledgling's brow furrowed again.  Something about the man's appearance and attitude did not ring true with his perception of those humans who strive for the higher positions of power.  This man, whoever he was, had fought and suffered to reach his rank.  Isca's manner relaxed again, betraying nothing of his suspicions.

"Good.  I'd hate to think we were torturing the wrong man." 

He watched in satisfaction as the warrior's face fell, the look of awful realisation on his face telling an unmistakeable story.  Isca shot him a meaningful glance. 

"You're not him, are you?"

The man shook his head wretchedly and stared at his boots, ashamed.  "I am his General."  

"Where is your Lord, General?"

At the man's reluctant silence, Gurt added, "It will go better for you if you assist us."  The Elite guard in the background picked his teeth with his dagger for greater effect.

"Lord Kalippa has returned to Meridian," the General volunteered eventually.

The vampires' eyes met in wordless concurrence.  At length, Isca straightened as though having made a decision.

"Then you should return to him."  The General looked up in hope, hardly believing his ears.  Isca gestured to the Elite guard.  "See if you can find the General a horse."

As the vampire busied himself with the task, the human muttered profuse words of thanks to his captors, adding that their reputation as heartless killers was highly undeserved.  Isca nodded magnanimously.  A few moments later, the Elite guard returned and announced that the horse was ready.  The General rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and with a final word of thanks, hobbled towards the door.  It was not until he had mounted to the saddle that he saw the line of crossbowmen ranged at the village gate.  He turned to his captors in consternation.

"You said you would allow me to go free!"

"I said you should return to your Lord," countered an amused Isca.  "If you can make it through the archers, you're free to go."

With a sinking heart, the General accepted his predicament and with a last, fierce glance that assured Isca that the man had more guts than the majority of the Sarafan put together, he urged his mount to speed.   As the horse reached a gallop, the General became almost convinced that the feat was possible: his armour would deflect the worst of the barrage, and any wounds he suffered on the un-armoured areas of his legs were unlikely to be fatal and could easily be healed.  On reaching the gate, he knew he had erred in his judgement.  The vampires' bows, heavily sprung and instantaneously reloaded, showered his body with a hailstorm of metal barbs.  The tension behind the bowstrings, strung more heavily that would have been possible for human archers to handle, enabled the bolts to pierce his armour by the score.  In the two seconds it took for the General to pass through the limited range of the line of bowmen, he had been riddled with puncture wounds from over fifty missiles, leaving him a bristling, bleeding parody of a knight on horseback as the unharmed horse cantered swiftly on.

It only remained to be seen whether the knight would die from his injuries before he reached Meridian.  It now lay with fate to decide whether the motion of the horse would cause the barbs to further penetrate his skin and puncture a vital organ; whether he would fall from his none-too stable seat and meet his end as gravity forced the intrusive missiles deeper; or whether he would simply expire from extreme blood loss.

The Razielim began to place bets.

Author's Note:

*sniggers* That topless pic is up now . . .


	13. Retribution Part 1

The low burble of conversation resounded from the walls of a room that had seen no activity since the eve of Raziel's execution.  At long last, the vaulted chamber, which had been used for purposes as diverse as councils of war, entertainment and murder was filled once again with active brains making strategic decisions.  One man alone could even hazard a guess as to what had truly occurred within these walls on that fateful night, and he was keeping his own counsel.  The sombre discourse was interrupted by the groan of brass on wood as the heavy door opened to reveal their long-absent emissary.  He was alive, but bore all the signs of having been forcibly ejected from his destination.  His initial words confirmed the suspicion that had already formed in the minds of all present.

"They will not aid us."

Gurt nodded lightly and knowingly, eyeing his comrade with some concern.  "I doubted they would.  You should not have put yourself at risk, Captain."

"If they would not listen to me, they would not have listened to any one of us," replied Harrin, easing himself into a comfortable chair with some difficulty.

Isca sighed resignedly and removed the representation of the Dumahim Clan from his campaign map.  

Gurt caught his expression and examined the tabletop scene in more detail.  "So.  Neither Rahab nor Dumah are interested in the conquest of Meridian."

"It comes as no surprise," commented Harrin, gratefully accepting the mulled wine offered him.  "Their lands are far from here, and their own holdings under threat from the human armies that border their domains."  

Gurt grunted his agreement.  "And what with Melchiah and Zephon otherwise engaged with the knights who seek to invade their lands from the south . . ." 

There was a pregnant silence as neither Gurt nor Harrin dared proceed to the obvious conclusion.  There was but one Clan whose lands lay close enough to Meridian for the human populace there to pose sufficient threat to warrant their joining in the Razielim's quest: the Turelim.  Isca swept the last Clan symbol from the map with a wave of his arm and raised his eyes to meet the eyes of the Captain and the Fledgling Master.

"Then we will conquer it alone."

Gurt and Harrin exchanged anxious glances, and before long the Captain rose shakily to his feet to approach the glaring fledgling.

"We are too few to take the city." He advised, not unkindly.

"We have already reduced their numbers," countered the fledgling.

The Captain moved to stand opposite the grim-faced youth, the table with its map of Meridian separating them.  "We cannot win with an all-out assault."

Isca's sharp hearing caught the emphasis in his words and eyed the Captain shrewdly.  While his tortured soul screamed for vengeance on these humans who had murdered both his family and his sweetheart, as well as decimating the Razielim tithe villages, a steadily strengthening voice was telling him that Harrin had years of experience on him, and that his strategic knowledge was far superior to his own.  He bit down on the retort that almost sprang from his mouth and asked the pertinent question:

"You have another idea?"

*

Kalippa huddled in his quarters, his eyes also drawn to the map of the city that lay on his desk.  Things were not going well for him.  He had lost many of his best men in his recent, futile assault.  His general had been returned to him, stone dead on the back of his horse, his hands still stubbornly gripping the reins as though determined, even in death, to guide his mount back to Sarafan soil.  Worse still, since these night-time raids had begun, sending the inhabitants of Meridian into blind panic, public opinion had turned against him.  His eyes shot to the door as heavy footsteps thundered past, and he waited tensely until they faded into the distance before he relaxing slightly – it was not another attempt on his life.  He turned his troubled gaze back to his map, which showed the localised attacks that had taken place over the last few weeks.  There seemed to be no discernible pattern to them, the vampires choosing seemingly random targets from night to night.  First the schoolhouse, then two taverns on two successive nights, then nothing for an entire week, then the arson strike on the library, in which thousands of irreplaceable Sarafan tomes had been lost.  Kalippa began to sweat.  If he did not figure out the pattern and provide a solution in the next day or so, he knew that he would have to face the Bishop, who was waiting eagerly in the wings with a most unwanted offer of help with his inspiration.

Kalippa had already packed his bags.

As dusk settled over Meridian, the city exchanged its daytime finery for its night-time garb. The bustling crowds were slowly but surely replaced by smaller groups of revellers, the antics of street performers and musicians by and by supplanted by the antics of drunkards and thieves.  The city guard oversaw it all from their perches on the crenellated walls surrounding the inner town.  The  vampire raids of recent weeks had forced them to work for their money for once, and the threats that had come down from the Bishop were sufficient to ensure that every man was on full alert tonight.  None relished the thought of failure.  As the last of the late-night celebrators staggered reluctantly from the lighted doorways, and the still of the dark hours descended like a woollen blanket over the sleeping city, the attack began.

As with each previous occasion, there was no warning: no bellowed challenge, no cavalcade of horsemen with banners flying, no battering ram at the gates: the shadows at the city walls simply came to life.  By the time the first dull-witted guard noticed the presence of the enemy, the Razielim were surging over unguarded portions of the wall, their dark clothes providing perfect camouflage against the sable shadows.  Even with their poor night vision, the night watch could see that there were a terrifying number of invaders, and, even as the alarm sounded, there was more than one soldier on top of that wall who was convinced that the end had come.  The advance was relentless, the bloodthirsty mob ploughing through the last nocturnal stragglers before turning their violent tendencies on individual dwellings.  There would be no quarter given tonight, no reprieve for the Sarafan knights and their human compatriots, and no turning back for the vampire forces.  Meridian would fall. 

Breaking away from his group as they separated, Isca shoulder-barged a cottage door open with a splintering crack, sending the male who had been holding it shut flying backwards to land in a huddle against the chairs and table beyond.  Hardly had he crossed the threshold when something hard and metallic slammed down onto the crown of his head with an audible clang.  He turned with an enraged growl to see a woman brandishing a blackened metal skillet that now had a head-shaped dent in it.  Seeing that the man was already clambering to his feet, Isca aimed a backhanded slap at the woman's face, sending her tumbling into the corner of the room, the skillet still clutched in one white-knuckled hand.  The vampire's ears pricked up sharply as the air quivered with the ring of steel sliding from a sheath - the man was advancing on him with a rusted blade which had probably not seen the light of day in many a summer.  Isca smiled grimly, dodged the man's awkward swing with panther-like grace and allowed the human's forward lunge to carry him neatly into his outstretched claw.  Gripping the shocked male tightly around the neck, Isca shook him until his teeth rattled, and the sword fell from his trembling fingers.  Hearing shouts from just beyond the door, and fully aware that speed was of the essence if they were to maintain the advantage the element of surprise had given them, he resolved to end the struggle quickly.  Isca promptly tightened his fist.  There was a sickening crunching noise as the man's spine splintered within the vampire's steel grip, and, dropping the bulging-eyed corpse to the ground, Isca sought the cottage's other inhabitant.

He crossed the room with a purposeful stride to find that the female had landed in a rather ungainly heap of skirts and petticoats in a shadowy corner of the room.  His thoughts darkened as he approached, his mind filled with images of the likely actions of the Sarafan in identical situations in the tithe villages.  He stopped short a few feet from the woman's sprawled and unconscious form, a snarl of disgust curling his upper lip.  The act was beyond contemplation.  His entire being was filled with revulsion at the very notion of coming into closer contact with this pathetic mortal, and he drew his sword before moving to stand over her, blade hovering for the kill.  As though suddenly aware of his presence, the woman's eyes shot open and widened in alarm as her thoughts quickly matched those that had occurred to the vampire moments before.  She drew her skirts together and crawled backwards towards the wall, shaking her head in denial of the assault she was sure was coming.  Isca's snarl intensified, his deepening disgust of the creature cowering before him forestalling his usual intentions of mischief, as well as the mental torment he was coming to favour in the moments before delivering the death-blow.  The air soughed past his blade as it descended to land cleanly in the woman's chest, a quick twist of the blade ensuring her doom.

Elsewhere, scenes of chaos and death prevailed as the vengeful vampires took out their pent-up anger and frustration on the long-despised objects of their hate.  Retribution would be sought for the atrocities committed against the people they had failed to protect, their anger at their own inaction only fuelling the strength of the attack on their hated enemies.  In accordance with Harrin's suggestions, no time was wasted in the torture or harassment of victims: simple efficient death-dealing was the order of the day. This stricture, accompanied with the liberal use of fire and overall destruction combined to ensure that the city would not come out of the night intact.

Now Meridian burned.

In the very centre of the town, Harrin was busily fighting his way up to the main keep with Gurt at his side.  His mind was filled with regret at his earlier, foolish decision not to aid the tithe villages, but this shame was gradually assuaged as he cut his way through progressively larger numbers of knights, each drop of Sarafan blood spilt going some way to ease his guilt.  Having won to the very threshold of the keep, the small group of undead warriors broke through the meagre defences to come face-to face with the 'Sarafan Lord'.  Contrary to Harrin's expectations, the man backed off nervously, glancing from left to right and voicing heartfelt pleas for his men to help him.  The Sarafan remained where they were, to all appearances frozen in fear.  As Harrin strode through the door, his passing was marked by a swish of air and a silvery blur.  Gurt stood stock still, his mind trying to make sense of what he had just seen, his eyes still unwilling to accept the message his brain was trying to convey: Harrin had been halved by sprung razor-wire.

*

**Author's Note**: webpage will have tattoos added in about 5 hours' time.  *bounces around in anticipation*


	14. Retribution Part 2

Gurt's heart skipped a beat, and the scene before him slowed to a sluggish, unreal crawl.  He watched, horrified as the Captain, a highly valued officer as well as a friend of more than a century, slid lifeless to the ground. Blood glistened thickly on exposed innards as he split slowly into two perfect halves, both of which descended to the sandstone floor with a duet of wet thuds.  The Fledgling Master slowly retreated, eyes darting from one side of the door to the other with great suspicion as the Sarafan advanced to block the entrance, blades in hands and cruel smiles apiece.  

The knowledge that they had taken down a person of some note in the ranks of the Razielim stimulated an air of confidence and satisfaction amidst the human guard. By now, the malice that pervaded the dim-lit room had reached almost palpable proportions, and before long, the foremost of the guards stepped forward to beckon to Gurt to follow his Captain's foolish move.  While the Fledge Master continued his strategic retreat, the Sarafan, having disarmed the razor-wire trap at the keep entrance, began to pour out, their flexible, silvered armour gleaming like molten metal in the torchlight.

From his safe haven at the back of the room, Kalippa barked a command.

"Get him!  I want one of them alive!"

Elsewhere, in the cobbled streets of Meridian, the battle had begun in earnest.  From innkeeper to apothecary and from temple to tumbledown cot, every denizen of the city was fighting for his life and his land.  For once, the fire of determination burned strong in the hearts of the mortal populace, the threat of invasion hammering on their door vitalising even the faintest of heart, and ensuring that the vampires would have no easy task of it tonight. Rattlings and rummagings disturbed the fraught silence as seldom-used weapons were excavated from attics and chests, while kitchen and garden implements sufficed when no true armaments could be found.  In addition, the supply of willing human fighters seemed inexhaustible: fresh, impromptu troops filling the gaps left by the vanquished almost as soon as they had fallen, the desire to hold onto their land making them brash and almost heroic.  

The ageless enemy, on the other hand, was driven by more than the conquest of territory.  Revenge was a factor that could easily tip the scales.  In every quarter, pale-skinned figures ran amuck through the blood-slick streets, the earliest arrivals proudly displaying their gore-splattered features, while the more recent reinforcements quickly sought to make up for lost time.  The Elite had no trouble with the Sarafan, their age and experience ensuring that few could match their battle lore, and many were the knights who fell foul of their thirsting teeth and claws.  The fledglings, for their part, were simply revelling in the opportunity to spill Sarafan blood - in copious amounts and in inventive fashions - a pleasure that had been distinctly lacking of late. 

Isca, one of the first to arrive, had long since given up the focused approach, and was mercilessly decimating the enemy whenever the opportunity arose.  As he strode purposefully down one of the main streets, he barely broke stride as he tugged a merchant from where he huddled behind his stall, throwing him directly onto the spiked railings of the church at his left.  He passed away with a bubbling moan, his upturned visage, in death, adding a long-lost air of piety to the abandoned church.  A skulking Sarafan knight was the next object of his indiscriminate violence, his intended ambush foiled as the keen senses of the undead allowed him to pre-empt the strike.  Seizing the shocked soldier by the plume of his well-secured helmet, he swung the youth from his hideaway in an alley into plain view.  Pausing only to snap the young man's neck with a grating crunch, his keen gaze swept across the burning buildings, his golden eyes soon discerning the goal he sought – the Sarafan Keep.

The Keep itself had been erected centuries before, and over the course of the years, the dour stone walls had seen the city rise from a smattering of servants' cottages to a thriving, industrial complex.  Meridian, as all metropoli, was a den of iniquity; but the scabrous, clandestine aspect was hidden beneath a gaudy show of wealth and finery.  At length, the onward surge of the vampire forces brought them to the paved square at the foot of the massive building.  It was partly a matter of planning - but more a quirk of coincidence - that several squads arrived at the same time from different directions. By now, the air was thick with acrid smoke, the ground miry with clotted blood.  It was onto this scene of destruction that Isca marched, the various groups of vampires drifting in to coalesce into one cogent mass behind him.  

With a pang of regret, the young Razielim recognised the body of his Captain, and he sent a short but fervent prayer after his departing spirit before locking his eyes and his anger onto the towering structure before him.  Suspecting a trap, he grabbed a handy human knight and gave him a tremendous shove that sent him staggering towards the entrance.  Isca's eyes narrowed as he saw first-hand the fate that had befallen Harrin.  He grimaced and let out a frustrated breath.  They would not gain entry this way.  Presently, his searching gaze alit on a long line of windows that looked as though they opened onto a large hall.  After exchanging a few brief words with a number of the senior Elite, he and a select few circled around to the windows and prepared to force their way in.  Had he but known it, this was the same method his sire had chosen  to launch a sneak attack on the keep but a few months before, the ill-advised move sparking an incident which not only brought about the downfall of the previous Sarafan Lord, but was also a major catalyst in the destruction of his own tithe villages.  Isca continued oblivious.

The growing light from the raging inferno outside cast devilish shadows that danced restlessly about the gloomy walls of the great hall.  As the vampires descended silently into the keep, Isca became aware that something dominated the centre of the room, a hulking shadow that his even his keen eyes could not yet make out.  He approached with caution, ever casting furtive glances about the chamber, still cloaked in Stygian dark.  A word was muttered, and the walls were thrown into stark relief by the light of several brands, instantaneously ignited to reveal to the undead a roomful of well-armed knights and a single dark-robed figure.  The form was secured to a large, upright stake in the centre of the room, while its face remained hidden in the depths of a voluminous hood.

As the Razielim fell into their standard defensive position, forming a circle back to back so that none could catch them unawares, Kalippa stepped out from behind a pillar.

"So good of you to come."

Isca snarled and declined to reply.  The Sarafan chuckled to himself and grinned condescendingly at the young vampire.

"Attitudes like that will not win negotiations."

"We did not come here to negotiate." snapped Isca, his claw wrapping slowly around the hilt of his sword.

The paper-thin smile faded from Kalippa's face as he ascended to stand on the raised stone block at the foot of the stake.

"You might want to reconsider that opinion," he advised, in a voice like silk.

Sliding a long, curved dagger from its sheath, he pulled back the hood that covered the prisoner's head to reveal Gurt, his features barely recognisable under a multitude of cauterised scalds that were characteristic of the Vampire reaction to water.

The Razielim line almost broke.  

When he was sure that the elder Elite had stopped the remainder from rushing forward in a rash charge, Isca took time to appraise Gurt's situation more carefully.  He lived, but barely, if the weak  fluttering of lashless eyelids was anything to go by; it was also fairly evident that the water torture had not been restricted to his face, and that he had been unable to escape because they had driven massive, round-headed iron nails through palm and shin.  Though the wounds were already starting to heal – imprisoning the man more effectively than the humans ever could - still Vampire blood shimmered in a restless pool about the base of the stake.

"Release him," came Isca's hoarse demand.

"Call off the attack." countered Kalippa.

Isca's eyes flared with anger, frustration and not a little trepidation at the decision he would have to take.  It was with considerable effort that he managed not to look at his men: he knew their expressions, whatever they were, would be enough to sway him.  They had, almost to a man, been trained by the Fledgling Master, and each held the veteran in the highest respect.  Furthermore, Isca could not afford to give Kalippa the impression that he had to look at the others for advice in order to make the decision.  

Too late.  He had hesitated.

Kalippa's square features lit with a smile that told that his suspicions were confirmed.  "So, he **is of value to you after all."**

Isca cursed himself for delaying.  His hesitation had given the enemy valuable knowledge - he would know better in future. The young vampire felt he was finally coming to understand Raziel's occasionally harsh attitude: it was slowly becoming clear to him that one of the greatest burdens of leadership was that of making tough choices.  Such decisions would only be harder if those in control did not keep a certain distance from men who lived and died at their command.  As this appreciation of his mentor's actions formed in his mind, a phrase that Raziel had uttered what seemed like a lifetime ago came back to him with crystal clarity.

_"Presence of mind, strength of purpose, devotion to a cause . . ."_

His eyes sought Gurt's.  Though wracked with unimaginable pain, still the vampire's staunch beliefs shone through.  He was now, as he ever had been, ready and willing to die for his Clan.  Isca glanced across to read the expression of the Sarafan leader – he refused, even in his mind to consider the usurper a Lord – and saw the uncertainty that skulked beneath his overconfident veneer.  Beneath the desire to rule and dominate lay a lost, directionless man, desperately seeking fulfilment through the games of War.  He, like all his kind, had no faith.  That was why the humans would lose.  A movement from the figure on the stake caught his attention, and he saw that Gurt was vehemently shaking his head, his lips, fused by the burning touch of the water, unable to articulate his decision.  

There was no need.

Isca inclined his head in a last gesture of respect to the Fledgling Master.

Kalippa tightened his grip on his dagger.

With his head still lowered, Isca raised his eyes to glare at the Sarafan, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

"Kill them."


	15. Farewell to Meridian

Not since the day they repelled Turel's ill-advised invasion of their Clan lands had the Razielim fought with such raw fury.  They broke from their defensive circle with ragged howls, seeking first to satisfy their craving for revenge before indulging another, more basic thirst.  The claws of the Elite, hardened through centuries of evolution, carved through plate armour on contact, cleaving the air with sounds of shearing metal.  One such guard caught his first victim by the arm even as he turned to flee, and, swinging him around to face him, brought his claws down in a vicious, vertical slash, opening up the man's face and chest to the bone.  Another took the blade of a daring Sarafan directly in the gut, just to manoeuvre himself into closer quarters.  As the human stared dumbfounded at what should have constituted a mortal wound, the leering Razielim returned the favour, punching his fist through the knight's armoured torso until he felt the resistance cease.  He savoured the knight's surprised death-mask as he tugged his limb free, only thereafter turning his attention to the length of steel protruding from his own body.  

Elsewhere, Isca's first springing leap forward had carried him directly onto the platform at the base of the stake, just in time to see Gurt's head roll on the ground.  He spared the man one last mournful glance, swearing to himself that when Meridian had fallen, his body would be taken back to their Clan lands to be properly honoured.  A mocking laugh shattered his reverie.  Kalippa stood before him, face twisted in a knowing sneer.

"Not so great without your Clan Lord, are you?"

Isca scowled back, wondering how much the man could truly know of the events that had befallen the Razielim in recent months.  Was Raziel's death common knowledge amongst the Sarafan?

"Oh come now, boy, you're not going to waste my time denying it, are you?"  Kalippa graced him with an almost fatherly smile as he sauntered around the platform, his calm demeanour completely at odds with the bloody battle raging in the background.

"No protection for the precious Tithe Villages, rumblings of invasion from rival Clans: the events speak for themselves."  He turned the full force of his mocking gaze on the furious vampire.  

"He's _dead,_ isn't he?"

This was not helping matters.  The Sarafan's words had conjured undesirable images of Raziel's execution, which were strongly interfering with Isca's train of thought.  He declined to reply, unwilling to give the man any other potentially advantageous knowledge.

"Tell me, vampire, before I kill you, how _did that narcissistic leader of yours meet his end?" _

Isca tensed at the insult, his claws almost denting the hilt of his sword.

The Sarafan waved his hand dismissively.  "It matters little – as you'll soon be joining him."

If Kalippa had known anything at all about the vampire who faced him, he would have ceased his provocation long ago and started running.  Unfortunately for him, he was ignorant of the youth's temperament and abilities, and so continued blithely to seal his own fate.

"It's probably the best thing for your Clan anyway - what sort of fool put a whelp like you in charge?"

Isca was finally provoked enough to answer the Sarafan's insult-ridden queries.  "The two men you just killed."

Kalippa laughed at the irony, his mirth blinding him to the fact that the vampire was edging ever closer.  

"What makes you so special?" taunted the human, "Who are you?"

Isca finally closed the distance between them, relishing his introduction.

"I'm the one who's going to murder you."

The Sarafan blanched at the sincerity in the vampire's tone.  He meant it.  The human swallowed audibly, backing away while freeing his blade from its sheath, already more than half-convinced that it would do him little good in the circumstances. He was correct.  In a movement so fast it defied logic, a claw seized the hilt of the sword, wrenched it from the man's grasp and hurled it from the platform.

Kalippa, weaponless and seriously scared by now, resorted, as he so often had in the past, to bluster.

 "If you kill me, another will rise up and take my place."

Isca waved the threat aside, following the retreating human closely as he backed around the base of the stake.  

"I'll murder him, too."

Kalippa, hope failing, decided to try a new tack.  "Surely we can come to a mutually beneficial compromise?"

The vampire seemed to consider this, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side in a gesture that would remind many of his sire in years to come.

"Swear that you will hand over these lands to the Razielim."

Kalippa nodded fervently, keen to placate the creature.  Besides, when the vampires had withdrawn, there was nothing to stop him persuading the Bishop to gather reserve forces to wipe out the remainder of this tiresome Clan.

"You shall have them."

Isca nodded, and, in a tone of mock-politeness, added:  "Thank you.  It is good to deal with such . . . civilised foes."  He stalked around to stand at Kalippa's side, shortly shaking his head and venting a theatrical sigh.

"However, your attacks on our tithe villages cannot go unpunished."

Kalippa's eyes widened as the vampire fixed him with a look of ill-concealed glee.

"Your life is forfeit."

"No!" the man searched desperately for a reason for the vampire to let him live.  "You need me for the negotiations!"

"No negotiating.  You will give us what we ask for, or you will all die."

Kalippa's blustering reached new heights.  "Spare me – I know a great deal - I could be a great asset to your cause."

Isca paused in his stalking, apparently giving the man's offer some serious consideration.  At length he nodded, as though having reached a decision.  He leaned in close to Kalippa's trembling face and spoke two words in a voice that betrayed the gratification he was drawing from the situation.  

"Beg me."

The human's face hardened slightly, his reluctance to be reduced to such embarrassing behaviour overwhelming his fear.

As the Sarafan's silence continued, Isca lost patience and swiped at him. The newly revitalised human reacted swiftly, drawing his dagger and raising it vertically to block the vampire's claw.  Steel sliced through flesh and forced a growl of pain from between unwilling lips.  Isca retaliated by slamming the back of his uninjured hand against the side of Kalippa's head, sending him crashing into the wooden stake.  Shaking his head dazedly, the Sarafan managed to focus on the approaching figure seconds before a bleeding claw pinned his throat against the rough wooden pole.

Isca spoke through clenched teeth, affording the Sarafan leader a close-up view of the elongated canines that gleamed a shocking white against the dark hue of his lips.   

"I don't want your worthless land."   

Kalippa threw his dagger aside to free both hands and send them scrabbling at the iron grip that was crushing the life from him.  When he had loosened them enough to breathe, he blurted out: "Then what do you want?"

Isca regarded him solemnly.  "I want my Captain and my Fledge Master back."

Kalippa knew then that he was done for.  This creature never had any intention of sparing his life: he had been toying with him; playing with his emotions and exploring his limitations; tormenting him.

Isca smiled in triumph as he hauled the squirming human back to his feet.  All around him, his senses told him that the fight was dying down, and that the humans were losing.   Never taking his eyes from those of the Sarafan, he took hold of the man's forearm, and, with no hesitation and very little effort, he snapped it.

Kalippa screamed, dousing the hall in silence for a split-second before the fighting began afresh.  

"_Tha_t is for Harrin." 

Quickly seizing the other forearm, Isca applied pressure once again and listened out for the repeated sound of bone splintering.  It was a satisfying noise. 

"_That_ is for Gurt."

Kalippa shook his head in denial, rambling incoherently about his sorrow and regret.  Apparently the vampire was appeased at this, as he allowed the babbling human to slide to the ground with his forearms dangling at unnatural angles.  Kalippa's  head shot up once again as the creature knelt before him, the lack of pity in those cruel, golden eyes assuring him that his ordeal was not yet over.

_"This_ is for Quadros." The left ankle snapped.

"_This_ is for my lover."  The right followed suit.  Kalippa screamed again, this time begging for an end to his suffering in the name of all that was good and true.

Isca continued as though he had not spoken, raising his inhuman gaze to Kalippa's face and drawing back a fist in preparation.

_"This_ is for my parents."  The curled claw slammed into the man's face with an audible pop, breaking the nose and grinding the cartilage into pulp.  Kalippa's head flopped to one side, the bloody bubbles issuing from nose and mouth the only evidence that he still lived.

Isca's lips twisted into a grimace that was somewhere between delight and disgust.

"And this - "  

He caught hold of the man by the hair and yanked him away from the stake.  He hesitated with his fangs centimetres from the Sarafan's neck, so the last sensation the human would feel would be the chill of undead breath on his throat.

" - this is just for fun." 

As sharp, white canines punctured flesh, as the Sarafan's blood began to flow, the vampire reflected on the fate the man had wrought for himself: in persecuting the Razielim tithe villages he had sealed his doom at Isca's own hands - by causing him to see the leader as a figurehead, a symbol for all that the Sarafan ever represented. Although he himself was not directly responsible for the death of Isca's family, in the circumstances, he made a good substitute.

Isca remained at the scene of their victory until his Thirst was sated.

At length, with the group of Elite at his side, Isca strode from the Keep, his chest bathed in the blood of the conquered, his claws itching for the chance to spill more.  Nor was he to be disappointed.  As the night wore on, the vampires purged the keep and the surrounding buildings of their occupants until, with dawn approaching, it became clear that there was not a being left alive.  Isca smiled grimly to himself as the Razielim indulged in a vociferous victory cry.  He felt no remorse at his actions: the Sarafan had chosen their allegiance, and therefore no mercy had been accorded any of them.  Each man, woman and child was a servant of the enemy, and every one of them might as well have borne face of his parents' murderers.  His vengeance had been a long time coming, but now, with the catalytic effects of the destruction of the tithe villages, he felt the time had been ripe.

Nevertheless, as he surveyed the scene of devastation, and breathed deep of the cleansing morning wind, he could not escape the hollow feeling that resided in the pit of his stomach. He did not feel the expected sense of satisfaction at the accomplishment of a deed that had driven him for most of his young life.  He experienced no feeling of catharsis from the fulfilment of his revenge.  As the sky began to redden in the east, it finally dawned him that his own Lord had avenged his parents on the very day of their deaths, by dispatching their murderers on the battlefield.  However, the flame of revenge still burned strong in the vampire's heart - no longer for his parents, nor even for Maeve, but for Raziel.  From the ashes of Meridian was born a new purpose – for Isca to avenge his sire's wrongful death at the hands of his father and his treacherous brothers – in particular, the Lieutenant who had seen fit to torture him, too.

Isca clenched his fist until fresh blood flowed as he made a vow.

Turel would suffer for his crimes.

*

**Author's Note:**

Erm . . . I think this may be the end.  I'm certainly going to have to stop for a while.  

There's plenty more that could be written – there's a whole fifty years to play with until he catches up with Turel, but to all intents and purposes, the rest of Isca's adventures have already been told, and continue from here in 'Return to Nosgoth'.  

I've never written a story without a plan before – hope it worked!  Review Responses will be up soon.  Oh, and those stinking bridesmaids dresses are done now, so if anyone wants to see what's been causing me so many headaches over the last few months, they're on my website.


	16. Review Responses and Notes

**Review Response:**

**Shadowrayne****: **

Erm, Isca says thanks very much and not to worry about his other half . . .

_Freya_: Not to worry?!  I'll give you 'not to worry', come here you hussy!  He's all mine and you can't have him!

_Lilith__: *nudges Isca*_

_Isca__: *grabs hold of Freya's collar and holds her back, whistling nonchalantly*_

_Freya_: *does a passable impression of Scrappy-Doo, complete with 'Lemme at 'em!' battle cries.

_Lilith__: See?  All under control ; )_

**Vladimir****'s Angel: **

Thanks so much for all the reviews and silliness.  Looking forward to seeing what else you come up with over the coming months, both stories and artwork.  *drools again over the Cosmo Raziel pic with the 'come-to-bed' eyes and the half-open trousers and the – _underpants?!?*  0_0 _

Gotta go be sensible now.  *pouts mightily and wanders off to find a huge mochachoccawokkawokka* 

**Silmuen**** / MikotoTribal/Guardian of Tears / AmuseMe: **

Getting really worried about you lot.  You're all far too bloodthirsty when it comes to the Sarafan and Meridian.  No more blood and guts for at least a month until you calm down and start acting like nice little girlies.

*ducks barrage of rotten tomatoes and runs for the Sanctuary*

**AmuseMe****: (again)******

Thankyou tons for the reviews – hope you're baking at a nice even temperature, and that you're finding the conditions inspiring enough to write tons more! *starts to wear a groove in the carpet, pacing back and forth while waiting for updates on 'Disillusion' and 'Vampires in my House'*

**Silmuen****: (again)**

How's the derriere? ; )  Fine? Oh, goody.  

*Throws longbow away and gets out swanky new crossbow with laser sights*

How's **this** for inspiration?

*aims little red dot at Sil's feet*

Dance!  - Or update– it's up to you  ; )

Seriously, though, thanks very much for all the reviews, and I hope you get that website up soon – more people need to see your artwork!

**Guardian of Tears: **(again)****

Hullo!  I forgot you were out there!  Thanks very much for the review, (watch you don't fall off the battlements when you're doing your cheerleading) and can you please ask Brogan to move his arse off my car?  I need to migrate south for the winter.  Ta.

**MikotoTribal****: (again)**

Thankyou very much for your compliments – glad you've enjoyed.  I do have a four-page plan for another story, but it has nothing to do with this series, and I've no idea when I'll have time to write it (and it's pure slush) . . .  So, in the meantime, I'll content myself with reading yours.  : )

**Sereda****: **

Thanks muchly for the reviews, and sorry to have kept you waiting – hopefully the sadistic tinge in the final chapter made up for it.  : )  

**Final Notes: **

Bloody typical!  Now that circumstances dictate that I have to have to slow down, if not stop writing altogether, I've been inspired with tons of new ideas.  *growls, shakes fist at Fate and wanders off to do 'grown-up' stuff*

*

 My website is in the process of being updated (I have to wrestle my boyf for it most nights), but it does now have lurvely pics of my tarantulas, swords and, before long, my Razielim underwear!  Oh and that pic of BO2 era Kain that I finally got around to finishing.  : )  Do drop in and say 'hi', if you get the inclination!

*

**Isca******

Just one last thought . . . if anyone ever wondered where the name Isca came from, it's the old Roman name for an area of South Wales (Caerleon), as well as the name of my friend Kaz's pet rat.  *snigger* 

_Lilith_: Ha ha!  You're named after a rat!

_Isca__: *scowls, growls and mutters something rude about loony Welsh women*_

_Lilith__: (sing song) Rat-boy, rat-boy, ra-_

_Isca__: *swat*_

_Lilith__: ' _'_


End file.
